He was so cute. Shorter than me, like I like. Happy smile. Beautiful dark, expressive eyes. Perfect skin. A few drinks in, I wasn't too shy to flirt, and it worked. He asked for my number, and then asked me to walk him to where his friends were picking him up. While we waited, we talked, and we kissed.
The next morning I texted him and asked for a date. He said yes, then no. I cajoled him back to yes, and picked him up at 7. The food was fine, but watching his eyes was a joy. What a beauty! We kissed more, walked hand in hand, and he spent the night. When we woke up the next morning, we brushed our teeth, and spent a couple more hours in bed. Much the same thing happened the next weekend.
When talking the following weekend, he mentioned non-chalantly that he had a doctor's appointment the next day that had him nervous. He'd had a routine HIV test, among other things, and he thought it strange that they were requiring him to come back in rather than give the results over the phone. I comforted him, since I'd never heard of HIV results being given over the phone, either way. After all, I reasoned, if it's bad news every time you have to come in, then they might as well just tell you over the phone, because saying you have to come in is the same thing as saying you're positive, but also torturing you with the wait. So it must be some other reason.
I was somewhat comforted by my own words, but not really. I couldn't think of anything else. I replayed in my mind, over and over, our sexual encounters. Did his cum touch anywhere that it could get in? Had my gums bled when I brushed my teeth that morning before doing it again? Had I eaten anything coarse that might have cut my mouth? I couldn't focus on work. I texted him, asking him to call me as soon as he was done with the doctor, because I couldn't think of anything else.
At 2:15pm, I got a text: "I knew there was a problem. They never call me into the office if everything is fine. I tested positive..."
and immediately thereafter
"I'm sorry you need to go get tested...I don't know how to deal with this."
I instantly got hot and flushed, and panicked a little bit. I didn't know what to do. I called my doctor and set up an appointment immediately. I left work and called a friend on the road. He was, ironically, at an AIDS conference in Chicago at the time. He assured me that what we'd done was relatively low risk. Regardless, I was terrified; while in the waiting room, I lost the very nice lunch I'd had.
My friend told me what to ask for, and my doctor gave me, a "viral load" test, which costs a lot more but has a shorter window period and is more accurate than the typical mouth swab thing. But it takes a lot longer to get results. The doctor and I talked quite a bit. He said that while HIV is no walk in the park, it's not a death sentence these days, and life expectancies are very long. As far as managing the disease goes, it's more along the lines of diabetes; it's annoying to have to constantly take pills and worry about your health, but it doesn't otherwise interfere with your life.
By the time I left the doctor's office, it had only been about an hour and a half since I'd found out, so I hadn't really had time to process it. I called my friend again, and for the first time since I was probably 12, I cried. I mean, I've cried since then, but only superficial crying, like in a movie. This was the first time I'd cried about something going on in my life. And certainly the first time I'd cried in front of another person. I was scared, and above all, lonely. I just needed a hug, but the guy who may have infected me wasn't talking to me, and I couldn't tell my family because they'd just worry unnecessarily. I felt completely alone, and I was. My friend insisted he was flying out to be with me, which was sweet, but I knew that would just stress me out even more because I'd have to think about it the whole time he was here.
I did talk to the guy after leaving the doctor's office. Strangely, I wasn't mad at him. My first reaction was to try to comfort him. But I don't really know him, and when something life-changing like that happens, I imagine you don't want to have to deal with the random guy you may have just infected, even if he's trying to be nice. He asked me to give him time to deal with it, so communication stopped.
I decided not to go back to work, and decided to go to the gym. My thought process was: dating is pretty much over for me if I have HIV. It's hard enough to find a guy with only 10% of the male population to choose from. When you have to drop that bombshell into conversation before sleeping together, things get a bit more complicated. So I felt like if I dedicated myself to the gym, I would not only be healthier to combat the disease, but I'd be more attractive.
But I got lazy, and was too worked up. Instead, I did research. I wanted to know EXACTLY how risky I'd been. What were my chances of getting it? What were my chances of staving off AIDS? What kind of drugs might I have to take? What kind of communities were there for guys with HIV? I read a report I'd written about this topic in school, which reassured me some. I read probably a dozen websites top to bottom. I looked up stats with the CDC. I called hotlines.
As it turns out, there's an HIV testing site and resource center within walking distance of my place. Of course, right? It is West Hollywood. I went down there and asked them a ton of questions, mostly to have personal confirmation of what I'd read online. They too assured me that what I'd done was pretty low risk. I got one of the 20 minute mouth swab tests. I knew I was still well within the window period, and it couldn't possibly come back positive even if I had it. But it made me feel better to get the results and hear them say the words "negative." I made a hefty donation to cover the wasted test, and because I was overwhelmed with appreciation that they are there for people who need them.
I looked up movies to try to distract myself, but there was nothing I wanted to see. I sat and did a lot of thinking about life, and life with HIV. My great uncle died of AIDS in the 80's, but I don't know that I ever met him, and if I did I was too young to understand. I had only known one other guy with HIV, in Boston, and had a giant crush on him. I recalled how much I'd wanted to kiss him, but also the conflict I'd felt over whether I'd really want to be in a relationship with him. I knew that is how people may react to me.
I thought about what my friend must be going through, knowing for certain that he really does have it. I thought about what his parents must be feeling, and how crushed my family might be when they find out. I went through a bit of "how could this possibly happen to me?" I am always so careful. I always use a condom. I almost always ask the guy (though it was now crystal clear that even if they tell the truth, they may not know themselves). I wondered whether the guy felt bad for possibly infecting me, and whatever other guys he'd been with, or whether he was only focused on himself at that moment. I wondered whether, if I were in his shoes, if I would feel guilty. Part of me feels like I shouldn't be making such a big deal out of it. After all, there shouldn't be any stigma to it. By reacting like this, am I betraying HIV-phobia? Maybe. On the other hand, how could I not react this way? It's one thing to be totally cool with somebody who has it, and another thing entirely to have it yourself. I took a sleeping pill and got some peace.
When I woke up and realized what had happened the day before, I promptly vomited. Every time I think about it I gag. Thankfully I'm not hungry, so there's nothing in my stomach to lose. I'm sure I'll lose weight. I suspect, like with everything else, the shock will probably wear off, and I'll get hungry eventually. Obviously I can't think of anything else. I don't know how I'll get through daily life waiting for the test results.
I suppose I'm not totally alone. This blog is more-or-less anonymous, but not totally. I know a number of my real-life friends read this. And I know there are a number of people, especially from Boston, who read this blog who know me in real life, but who I don't know are reading it. If you are one of those people who know me in real life, I need you to write to me now, whenever you read this, even if it's a year after I post it. Email or Facebook. I won't be mad that you've been reading it, even if you promised you wouldn't read it. It's important to me. Please.
The last survivor of the Titanic died today. 
I don't know if they still have this, but when I was little you used to be able to go down to the very bottom of the Queen Mary, where they'd cut a hole out of the bottom of the ship so you could see down into the water and look at the propellers. AGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It still gives me the creeps just thinking about it. I was plastered so tight against the wall of that little room. I had NO interest in going anywhere near that water. I don't even like the idea of sunken ships. If anybody ever tried to make me go scuba diving to a sunken ship, I'd probably faint.
