Fuck you, Ted.
There was no way I was going to follow through with his request.
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Without saying a word, Ted entered my apartment and immediately pressed himself against me, stroking me as if I were one big penis that he wanted to stimulate.
I was too shell-shocked to say anything. I had gotten little sleep, and when I did sleep I dreamed about him or my
mother. I was not in the mood for anything. I certainly was not in the mood to entertain him.
“Let's watch some porn,” I told him, grabbing his hand and taking him over to the couch.
“What about the meth?” he asked.
It was a good thing that he was so focused on himself that he could not see the anger in my face. “I'll see what I can do.” I cracked an incredibly fake smile. “Let's sit down and, you know, make . . .” I couldn't even think straight.
That was okay, though. Ted was in another world, and if he truly had feelings for me, this was one time I could play it to my advantage.
We sat on the couch and watched some pretty hardcore gay porn, the kind that shows sex acts that can be performed only by the extremely limber. Ted kept rubbing my chest. “I'd love to have a chest like yours,” he said. “Show me some more weight-lifting exercises.”
Oh, hell. I grudgingly took him over to the workout bench, sat him down, and put a set of dumbbells in his hands that were obviously too heavy for him. After he struggled trying to do just one curl, I grabbed the weights from him and knocked them down a few pounds. He did several bicep curls, but his form was poor. I showed him the correct way to do it, and he did a few more reps.
“Let's go to the massage room,” I recommended. I took him firmly by the hand and took off his clothes for him. I knew that was not how he liked to do things, but I didn't care. I was getting angrier by the minute.
Once naked, I rushed him onto the massage table and, without asking, began to jack him off. He wasn't fighting me. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it.
But after five minutes, he wasn't even hard. I took my mind
to happier places, envisioning Ted in a Hawaiian lei. That slowed me down enough to just stand there and rub him all over.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“My mother,” I quickly said.
He said nothing and let it go at that. A few minutes later, he was up, dressed, and out the door. Maybe he would get the hint and not come back anymore.
Yet a few days later, Ted was back, and I knew he was coming for methânot sex.
I greeted him at the door with a bottle of water.
“Did you get it?” he asked with excitement.
“No, I did not, Art.” I needed to be as calm and forceful as possible. “It's not going to happen right now. I'm sorry.”
The disappointment on his face was scary. His expression was similar to that of desperate junkies when they can't get a fix. He put down the water bottle and shuffled off to the massage room for what would be our last session.
We were both in a bad mood, and it was pretty obvious. Neither of us were stimulated. He couldn't get hard and his hands were more limp than titillating. My hand movements were just as lame. After only twenty minutes, he got up and put his clothes on. He gave me a quick hug and said, “Keep trying, okay?”
I said nothing and closed the door behind him. I went to the couch and closed my eyes. I was feeling more torn than ever.
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“Sodomy is a violation of God's law,” wrote Ted in
Ministry Today Magazine
in 2004, “and Christians are justifiably upset about the legalization of the practice.” He continued:
But we are faced with an age-old dilemma: At what
point is it appropriate to enforce our moral convictions upon the unwilling through the power of the state?
Should people who commit adultery be put in prison because of their immoral influence?
Finally, I'd had enough. I pulled up the Web site for KUSA-TV. I had to say something. I had to do something.
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About twenty years ago, I'd had a brief encounter with Paula Woodward, an investigative news reporter at Channel 9, the local NBC affiliate. I'd met her outside a business where she was talking with a friend of mine. He introduced me to her, and she seemed nice, not at all standoffish. That chance meeting stayed in my mind. I remember thinking that if I ever needed to talk to a reporter, she would be a good one to talk to.
Paula had been a reporter in Denver for almost thirty years. Ask anyone to name a reporter on a Denver television station, and her name will most likely come up. She is a Denver institution. Perhaps she could help me. I sent her this e-mail on August 15:
I am a 49 year-old gay man. I have lived in Denver all my life. I was a gay escort for many years. I have been with pro athletes, politicians, movie stars, and lots of clergy. I have always kept my encounters confidential. I am not the type to out people. But right now I am really struggling. I have seen this one man for several years. He showed all the classic characteristics of clergy but he never talked about it and I could not verify. Then a few months ago I was watching the History channel on religion. And to my surprise there he was as an expert. I could not catch his name and church [and] before I could get myself together his
name was gone. Then the next morning I am at the gym and for some strange reason the religious channel was on. This was not normal. But as I am on the treadmill, there he is again talking with a lady named “Joni.” The bottom line is I have found out he heads one of the largest Christian organizations in the country and is preaching antigay marriage information. But he is having gay relations behind his flock. This is so wrong. What a hypocrite.
To my surprise, she wrote back within a few hours: “I am very interested and you will remain anonymous. Thank you for writing to me. What would you like to do now? I'm glad you wrote.”
She included her pager and cell phone number. I called her right back to schedule a meeting. We were all set to meet two weeks later.
I was delighted that she wanted to talk with me, but as you can imagine, I had to think about what I was going to do. Now that I'd called her, even without naming names, suddenly my secret was out. If I mentioned Ted's name, it would be the first time I ever violated a client's trust. And if I told her about Ted, I would have to tell her about me. I couldn't imagine her seeing me as a dirty whore, but I could imagine her feeling uncomfortable. The last thing I wanted to do was make anyone feel uncomfortable around me.
I reread Ted's sermons on sodomy and adultery. I was still very angry, but now that I was going forward, I began to question if I was doing the right thing. This could destroy him, I feared, and that wasn't what I wanted.
On the morning of my meeting with Paula, I took the voice mail tapes and the envelope to the Channel 9 studio. I didn't
take the money Ted sent because I had already spent it. Paula met me at the reception desk and, before we started talking, took me on a quick tour of the studio. Then we walked to a conference room, and my heart started pounding faster.
After a few formalities, I poured my heart out to her. I played the voice mail tapes, showed her the envelope, gave her the entire history of Art as a client. I just didn't tell her who Art was.
She seemed unimpressed. Maybe that's just how reporters are, but I felt that we hadn't connected. If she was intrigued, she had one of the best poker faces I'd ever seen, even better than my mother's.
“Okay, okay,” I finally said. “It's Ted Haggard.” From my portfolio, I pulled out all the material I'd printed off the Internet. I specifically wanted her to take note of what I'd printed off Ted's Web page, where it said he was “president of the thirty million member National Association of Evangelicals.”
“He became president a few months before he first saw me three years ago,” I told her.
Paula took a few minutes to read the papers I'd given her. She turned each page slowly, seemingly unconcerned with time. “Wait right here,” she told me.
I sat there dumbfounded. There was nothing but silence all around. Had I just spilled my guts for nothing?
A few minutes later, Paula walked back into the conference room with two other people: her boss, Patti Dennis, the news director, and Tim Ryan, the assistant news director.
“I need as many heads on this as possible,” Paula said.
All three sat and listened intently as I told my story again.
One of the first questions they asked was why I was coming forward with this information. Fair enough, I felt.
“I am doing this to expose the hypocrisy of Ted Haggard,” I stated firmly. “I want to do this before the election, so, yes, I am doing this for political reasons.” I was up front about that.
Paula had me retell how I'd been seeing Ted, who I knew as Art, for the last three years and how we had sex about once a month, for which he paid me two hundred dollars each time.
“So you got paid for sex?” one of them asked.
I was caught off guard a bit. “Yes, I am a gay escort,” I replied. I went on to tell them how Ted used meth before we had sex and how just days ago he asked me to get some for him. “I'd like this story to come out before the elections,” I added. “In fact, a debate between Ted and me might be good.”
No one said a word; they were seemingly unfazed by what I said.
Then I showed them the tapes I had of his voice mails and the envelope he sent.
All three leaned forward in their chairs to examine the evidence.
Finally, all three lightened up a bit. Before long, our conversation turned into a brainstorming session. I was right in there with them, discussing how we could get more evidence of Ted and me having sex. It was going better than I thought.
Then the mood turned serious again.
“Thank you for coming in, Mike,” Paula said. I felt doomed. “You're talking about illegal activity here,” she said, referring to the meth use by Ted and the fact that I was soliciting. “You need to get an attorney for your own protection.”
That came out of nowhere for me. I said I would find one and wanted to move on. “What about my story?” I asked.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much to move on to, as far as the three of them were concerned. No doubt, they wanted my story, but they felt there was nothing with which to move forward. After discussing the situation some more, it was obvious that they would have preferred videotape to an audio recording.
They were just like a bunch of lawyers. They could not give me any particulars. They were very noncommittal, though they did tell me they thought it was a good story.
I told them that Ted should be calling me any day now. “Shall I call you when he calls me?” I asked.
Yes, that would be good, they said. All three started to gather up their things, signaling that the meeting was over.
I, too, gathered my things, feeling hurt and rejected. I wanted so much to have them put a camera in my face and let me tell the world what a hypocrite Ted Haggard was. Instead, I got a cold shower of reality.
Paula showed me out of the studio, thanking me for coming in.
“You do believe me, don't you?” I asked her.
Paula, always the professional, smiled. “It's not about whether or not I believe you,” she replied. “Certain things have to be in place before we can air any story,” she told me. “This story isn't there yet.”
I thanked her and headed home. I wanted to give her a hug because that's what I usually do, regardless of the setting. Instead, I shook her hand. In my heart, I knew that getting some more evidence should not be that difficult, yet the pressure of actually getting it was weighing on me.
Paula had to make sure the story was “accurate,” which meant that the story had to match the facts and that all the pieces, or at least enough pieces, whatever they were, had to
be in place. She was less concerned with “truth,” implying that some people's truths weren't necessarily factual. I was getting confused, but I think I understood her logic. She just needed to cover her ass.
That weekend, I kept going over in my head what they had told me. I was disappointed by their response and frustrated by their lack of direction as to how we could move this story forward. I really did not understand why the tapes and the envelope were not enough evidence.
“Just tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you!” I shouted to myself. After that outburst, I put my hands to my head and cried. Not only had I betrayed Art's trust, now I was getting ready to set him up.
Not sure what to do, I borrowed a video camera from a friend. I placed it in a chair in a corner and had it ready to go, complete with a charged battery and fresh videotape. I wasn't sure how I was going to use it, but at least I was ready.
After the three-day weekend, Paula called me and said they needed to get me on tape stating my allegations. I agreed, and within a couple of hours, she and a cameraman showed up at my apartment to get my story.
Paula asked me some very direct questions regarding sex with Ted Haggard and the drugs he used. I answered them directly and honestly. Again, I said that I had had a three-year relationship with Ted Haggard and that I had seen him approximately once a month during that time. I also explained that about a year into the relationship he asked me if I could get him some meth. I admitted to finding a connection for him to obtain the meth. I've never denied that.
After about twenty minutes, they packed up their stuff and headed out. Paula said she would be in touch. For a moment I was very excited. Finally, there was some progress. But just
as quickly as they popped in and popped out, I started feeling alone again. They were waiting for something to happen. I was waiting for something to happen. Here it was September, and it felt like nothing was ever going to happen again.