Happy New Year!
I feel like I should be saying that a few times since my last “real” post was about a year and a half ago. I think it’s time, though, to talk about something that happened about a year ago. It’s an anniversary of sorts. December 4th, marks the day that I went on PreP.
So, here’s the thing. Being on Prep isn’t an excuse for me to ride raw cocks every chance I get and have everyone bust up all up in here. I grew up in the 1980s when the fear of contracting the virus formerly known as GRID was inescapable. I knew I was gay from a very young age, first grade, in fact.
I remember when all the boys were hanging out with each other and playing in the playground during lunchtime and recess and all I wanted to do was jump rope and play with jacks and balls. Not much has changed.
I remember watching commercials featuring the song “Boom, Boom, Boom” where the lyric “let’s go back to my room, so we can do it all night so I can make you feel right” played eerily in the background while a junky in an abandoned apartment attempted to cover the camera that was zooming in on them and the digital call to action was something about AIDS. Yikes!
I remember watching a movie “And the Band Played On” that featured an all-star cast trying to figure out this “AIDS thing.”
I remember sneaking into my parents’ room to watch Madonna’s “Girlie Show Tour” and her singing "In This Life" preceded by a soliloquy about having lost friends to AIDS.
And every time I decided to have a guy stick his manhood inside my ass, I remembered all those moments. And when that door closed behind them or behind me, I regretted the hour or so of ultimate sexual release. Did I get it?
The first guy that took my flower was named Eli. He lived in downtown Jersey City and I was home for Thanksgiving break from college. When I found him off of an AOL chat room, I didn’t have any pictures to trade with him - for real. I drove to meet him anyway.
Eli was a 5’10, hairy and muscular Middle Eastern guy with probably a thick 8” tool. He was also a mail man. I remember that detail vividly because I could remember the incredible calves he had from all that walking. When we undressed each other, there was a distinct musk on him that drove me wild and made me realize that I definitely was gay. I told him he was going to be my first. He kind of laughed but then got serious and very focused. He kissed me passionately. He caressed me slowly. He was patient with me while I took him in my mouth. But he was very gentle when attempting to fuck my ass. At least for the first five minutes. Then he forced himself inside of me and rode my ass until my yells became welcomed moans.
Needless to say, the first time was sensory overload and I came within the first 20 minutes without even touching myself. I was embarrassed, but Eli assured me there was nothing to be embarrassed about. We showered together and I ended up seeing him a few more times over the next two years until he disappeared. He wanted to go into the FBI. I guess he did.
The next morning, after that first time, I went to take a shit. I was sore. And as gentle as I was being with churning out that turd, the once pleasurable stretching of my sphincter felt like shards of glass ripping through my asshole. Thankfully, the pain only lasted a few minutes then I go to wipe. Fuck! There was blood all over the toilet paper and in the bowl. I have it: I have AIDS.
Now, if you remember, in undergrad, you would maybe have the Wednesday off until you had to go back on Monday. So I sat in sadness, essentially writing out my will in my head to my family and friends who didn’t know I was gay yet. “Dear family and friends. I am gay and I got what I deserved. Nice knowing all of you.”
That weekend was the longest weekend of my life at that point. And now it got even longer. Everywhere I turned, there was a reminder of my sodomy: commercials: “are you sick and tired of being sick and tired;” conversations: “Mary, are you ‘positive’ you emailed her back?” and course syllabi: “remember that the material you on which you will be tested will only be from September to just before Thanksgiving break.” Jesus Christ. I drove back to Philly in silence and when I returned to campus, I confided in one of my friends at the university Monday morning. He was one of advisors of the fraternity I pledged. (“It’s a fraternity, not a frat. Do you call your country a cunt?”)
I told him the whole story in tears. He told me two things: 1. You wore a condom, you don’t have AIDS. 2. Get tested. It will make you feel better. And I did. I ended up driving two hours, all the way back to Jersey City - why not in Philadelphia, God only knows what I was thinking - and got tested at a free clinic. I had a drug addict to my left and a very thin man saying out loud “oh dear, I hope I don’t have it, I hope i don’t have it.” Ugh is this my life now?
Fast forward 16 years later…
I anxiously waited in the doctor’s room staring at the container of cotton balls and tongue depressors and thought about what and how I was going to ask for the drug. “Hey. As you know I’m a big whore.” No. “Hey. I need to the drug.” No. “Hey. I need reassurance.” And just like that, I got it. Truvada, that is.
Point of the conversation: You know yourself, so do it.