Miracle Cure
They are not lining up for the 20 minutes AIDS test.
I can’t say I blame the bashful. I’ll never take another one even if they can tell me the results in twenty minutes.
The first time I went, I thought perhaps I would be okay. I only sucked a few strangers off on subway platforms late at night and always spit when done.
The second time I went, I was a little more concerned. I learned that an old lover died from the horrible virus.
The third time I went to be tested, I lost another lover to AIDS and we screwed each other in every hole available and never used protection.
Back in the day, we had to wait for weeks for our blood to be shipped away and studied before learning if we were going to die soon. The follow-up appointments were excruciating. Doctors were not permitted to give results over the phone—either negative or positive. It had to be done face to face with counseling.
The last time I went for my HIV test, I told my primary care doctor, a dyke, that I was losing my mind. She didn’t believe me and laughed it off.
When I came back for the follow-up appointment, she told me I was negative, I nearly fainted.
I told my doctor again that I needed psychiatric help and was losing my mind.
She laughed it off—but you have so much to look forward to now, you are healthy, explained the lesbian. “Have you had your Hepatitis B shot?” she asked. “No, but listen Dr. McGowin, I am telling you—I hear my dead lover's voice at night when I try to sleep. I can’t sleep, I’m losing my mind.”
She laughed it off and patted my back as I left her office with a new lease on life.
But, just as I had predicted, I lost my mind. I almost jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge when I was psychotic, but I stopped myself because I saw a hot man cruising me on the bridge and I followed him home for anonymous sex.
After spitting again, I realized then that I would never die.
I can’t say I blame the bashful. I’ll never take another one even if they can tell me the results in twenty minutes.
The first time I went, I thought perhaps I would be okay. I only sucked a few strangers off on subway platforms late at night and always spit when done.
The second time I went, I was a little more concerned. I learned that an old lover died from the horrible virus.
The third time I went to be tested, I lost another lover to AIDS and we screwed each other in every hole available and never used protection.
Back in the day, we had to wait for weeks for our blood to be shipped away and studied before learning if we were going to die soon. The follow-up appointments were excruciating. Doctors were not permitted to give results over the phone—either negative or positive. It had to be done face to face with counseling.
The last time I went for my HIV test, I told my primary care doctor, a dyke, that I was losing my mind. She didn’t believe me and laughed it off.
When I came back for the follow-up appointment, she told me I was negative, I nearly fainted.
I told my doctor again that I needed psychiatric help and was losing my mind.
She laughed it off—but you have so much to look forward to now, you are healthy, explained the lesbian. “Have you had your Hepatitis B shot?” she asked. “No, but listen Dr. McGowin, I am telling you—I hear my dead lover's voice at night when I try to sleep. I can’t sleep, I’m losing my mind.”
She laughed it off and patted my back as I left her office with a new lease on life.
But, just as I had predicted, I lost my mind. I almost jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge when I was psychotic, but I stopped myself because I saw a hot man cruising me on the bridge and I followed him home for anonymous sex.
After spitting again, I realized then that I would never die.
posted by Charles George Taylor at
10:07 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home