I had the guy I date “Van” and a few friends over for a small cookout Sunday afternoon. After our friends left I was a bit restless.
So I went Adam4Adam and an organization hit me up for a free HIV testing. They were in a mobile van less than two miles away.
What the heck? I got tested last fall but it’s good to have them done every six months.
“Van do you mind going with me? You can hold my hands until the test results come in.”
“Sure, why not although I”m sure you are negative.”
Finding parking on the streets of Baltimore’s Federal Hill neighborhood was a bitch but we finally landed one three blocks away.
I went into the white van while Van waited. A young, biracial woman with curly brown hair and skin as smooth as vanilla pudding did the testing.
She pricked my finger, pulled blood up in a pipette, and inserted it into an instrument used to test my blood for HIV. She tried to make small talk, talking about how young I looked for my age, her quest to get into medical school and her love for California but you could tell she was nervous.
I guess because I came from a population group most likely to be positive. Black. Male. Gay. Urban.
In 10 minutes the time was up. I looked over and there was a red line across the top of the test strip. “You are negative,” she announced.
I thought I was negative but in the back of your head you never know. One time a few week ago I slipped my dick up into a dude raw and thrusted a dozen times to see how it felt but I stopped and put on the condom.
Maybe that one time could have been the time I got it…
“What if I had been positive, what would you have done?”
“Well, usually people who come have an idea they are already positive,” she began, that cheery but nervous smile still on her face.
“But if they are positive I try to keep them calm and say as little as possible. Because no matter what you say they really aren’t listening to you after telling them something like that.”