Transplanted Life
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Reality smack me upside da head
Went out again tonight... Well, last night now, I guess. Had a pretty good time; the college kids who had gone home for Thanksgiving were filtering back, all full of homemade food and wanting to get back to enjoying the city. I didn't dance a whole lot, though - guys really seemed to want to buy me drinks. It was okay; my legs were tired from doing what little Christmas shopping I'm planning to do this year (just Kate and Jen, really) during the early-morning sales and walking all over town all day when that was a bust. Folks seemed to want to talk tonight, and I was kind of open to it.

The last guy was really cool. At one point, he started talking about Scrooge McDuck, like in The Last Days Of Disco, but was man enough to admit he had picked that bit up when I told him I'd seen The Last Days Of Disco. But I did go along with it when he asked me to say I thought Scrooge McDuck was sexy. When we did dance, it was really erotic, lots of touching and get-a-room moves. I felt his erection when he pulled me close, but he wasn't embarrassed, and I suggested we go to his place a second before he did. It was an easy walk.

Because of all the drinks, though, I really needed to piss when we got there, otherwise, well, who knew what would happen? Oops, "pee". Women say "pee" instead of "piss"; it's like referring to their hooters as "boobs" instead of "tits". Anyway, I had a real good tension-draining number one. I wiped up, and then reached into my purse for some perfume to spray in the areas that get a little smelly after a night on the dance floor and by the bar. That's when I got myself a paper cut from some guy's number I'd written down earlier.

No big deal; I didn't have any band-aids, but figured this guy probably would. I opened the medicine cabinet, and that's when I saw the perscriptions medicines.

Antibiotics. Prednisone. Fuzeon. Nevirapine. AZT. Now, you see the first two for everything, and I remember hearing the third and fourth around the office - Jen's testing program had been used for one of them, I think - without knowing what they were for. But even I know AZT; everyone has heard of that one.

And I had an open cut on my finger.

I ripped off part of my top to wrap around the finger, and decided just to walk out. Before I got to the door, though, this guy caught up with me, asking where I was going. I took a deep breath, told him I'd been in his medicine cabinet for a band-aid, and was obviously not going through with it after seeing what was in there. I should have left it at that, but I was pissed. When he actually said he'd seen me before, heard me give different names to different people, so it wasn't like I was being clean with him, I actually felt every bit of alcohol leave my body. Through gritted teeth, I told him that yes, I role-played a little in the clubs - that my entire fucking life was role-playing - but even if I wasn't up front about who I was, I made sure I was very clear that I was looking for safe, let me repeat that, safe sex with no plans for lasting relationships or later consequences, whether they be emotional or physical. I never lied or omitted anything that could get anybody hurt, and that he had promised to wear a condom wasn't enough reassurance for me.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before he called me a bitch and went back to his bedroom. I walked out in a calm, dignified manner and didn't throw up until I reached the sidewalk.

The same dangers are out there for men, of course. I was probably no more stupid now than I was for picking up girls when I was Michelle's age, except for the being older and supposedly wiser part. Still, I feel like I'd not only just dodged a bullet, but after doing so had suddenly realized I was dodging bullets in a minefield.

When I got home, I googled those drug names, just to make sure. Yeah, they're AIDS stuff. Shit. I'm also checking to see if Massachusetts has a law about not informing sexual partners that you're HIV-positive, but looking up the law is tough for lawyers, let alone us guys who sucked at Social Studies.

Doesn't matter. Even if I've got no grounds to report this guy to the cops, the important thing for me is deciding how to live my life.


EDIT: I just noticed the piece of paper I got the paper cut on was Jen's boyfriend's friend's number. Coincidence or sign?
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