… I suddenly said to Sarah, the nurse doing my test, ”Christ, Laing died 9 months ago today”.
Let’s not get ourselves too excited here, my only constant sex partner for some time has been my right hand, and if my right hand was positive then I would up shit creek without a paddle.
Let’s start the story at the very beginning. As some of you may know, I have been toying with the idea of a tattoo or two, or so. I took the plunge and contacted a local tattoo studio. I got some sound advise in return for my enquiry. I will soon pencil in what and when I will do the dreadful deed.
Emboldened, I the contacted a local sugaring expert. Sugaring is like waxing, but done with - good God, you think you’re so clever, don’t you, dear reader? - a mix of sugar, water and lemon. It is an ancient art, so one is informed, and less uncomfortable than waxing. I am not going for the full Brazilian. I am quite content to remain in Sao Paolo, thank you very much. I shall not be going all the way down to Rio. So that is pencilled in for the end of the month. It is a curse on the male of the species that hair will sprout from anywhere and everywhere, it seems. So I am taking action, and bugger the discomfort, he says now before the event.
Anyway, I was thinking what could I treat myself to as a birthday present, since a tattoo in Singapore is is not going to be on the cards? Fate, as ever, offered a hand. I stumbled upon the alternative website of a guy who earns his bread and butter from commercial photography, but who offers, ahem, ‘alternative’ photographic services. So on my 59th birthday, I shall be shedding not only my inhibitions, but a hell of a lot more than that.
I’m thinking of trying to do some poses based around Nijinsky’s choreography to “L’après-midi d’un Faune”. It was quite shocking in its time, and not merely because of the strange poses. The final simulated sexual act horrified the allegedly respectable Parisian society. Above and beyond that I am stumped for ideas. I may not have the body of an Adonis, but if I am going to Hell I am going with all guns blazing.
I bet some of you out there might have a few ideas. Don’t be shy, you might have something to offer.
So, anyway, last night, while chatting on Facebook with a lovely friend from Singapore about tattoos (apparently barbed wire is now a complete no-no as a tattoo). We chatted a bit more, and among other things, he told me he had had unprotected sex and was taking all the necessary precautionary post mistake medications. I didn’t moralise or lecture him. We both know that safe sex is the message. None of us is a saint, and from time to time, even the best of us may make a mistake or behave recklessly or foolishly. I have done all three more than once in my adult life, and I am sure I shall continue to do so.
I decided after our chat that, although I have no reason to doubt my status, if I am thinking of going on the dating game, or even having casual encounters, then being aware of my status in this day and age is more than slightly important than when Laing and I started out on our life’s journey.
I checked out “HIV test in London” and found there is an NHS clinic in central London, located near most of the gay bars and prostitution which offered a drop in service, and they would welcome donations for the service they offer. So after a fruitless shopping expedition-ette in Westfield, Stratford, I made my way to get there about 11.40. There were quite a few guys there already. Some, I assumed from what was happening about me, had appointments and the welcome they were given made it seem that they were already known to the staff, so I assume they already knew their status.
Eventually I was called. Had a couple of giggles with Sarah. I was shocked to learn that 1 in 6 of gays “on the scene” is positive. In the words of Fascinating Aida in a song about using condoms, “Just one little trickle, and I’m in a pickle” has a scary edge to it in this context.
Sarah mixed my tiny blood sample (although she warned me it might, it didn’t hurt) with a red liquid, then a blue liquid. The mix turned clear and in the tray was a single blue dot. I am HIV Negative. Had there been 2 dots, then I would have been in trouble. At least I know I am not facing death from HIV infection as of today. and my right hand was telling me the truth when it insisted it had never indulged in unprotected sex. As a donation was requested on the web site, I did donate. More than the suggested £3.00. I am a wealthy widower. I do not have HIV at the time of writing, and I can afford to give where others, less fortunate than I, cannot.
She also took a blood sample to see if I am Hepatitis B immune (which too is common among gay men in London) or not. I need to check in 2 weeks. She thinks as I spent early years in Singapore and Hong Kong and Aden, I might be, but it’s worth checking, nonetheless. When you have dealings with the NHS like this, you know the horror stories are not as numerous as the screaming headlines would have us believe. God bless the NHS. Don’t destroy it, Jeremy Spooner.
