by Kim Gasper

© July 1999

Mid-May

I stewed about it--about him--for two weeks before the faintest prickings of panic added to my self-disgust, and finally got my ass in gear. I didn't want to feel guilty, or disgusted with myself, and I certainly didn't want to be freaking that I might have contracted HIV--but I had to be realistic, too. In this day and age it was an all-too-possible thing--and my brain had obviously gone on vacation for that wild weekend.

I wondered if Michael thought about it. If it bothered him. Did he get the tests done? Most everyone in any circle I traveled in, did. Even the ones who denied they were 'really gay'. Denial is one thing; delusions are something else. Most of us had more finely-honed self-protective instincts than that.

I had always thought mine were a little better than that.

Apparently, I had been wrong. Which was why I was sitting in my doctor's office, letting a nice young woman stick a needle into me, and waiting for a man I'd called friend for nearly a decade come in to verbally ream me.

Which was nothing more than I deserved.

The door handle rattled, and I breathed out slowly. Speak of the devil. Well, at least it would be over shortly.

"So." Quentin swept into the room with all the subtlety of a hurricane, and eyed me up and down, focusing on the small tube of blood the nurse was just now capping off. "Want to tell me what's going on here, Randy? You were just in a few months ago for your test--what's up?"

I sighed, and pressed the bit of cotton onto the small hole still welling red. The nurse--a new one, I guess, since I didn't recognize her--smiled at me, then took the tube and left.

"I fucked up, Quent. Big time."

"Yeah? How so?" His eyes narrowed, and I knew that he knew what I was going to say--and that I was still going to have to say it.

"Unprotected sex, man. What else?"

I could see the shock in his eyes even before my words completely registered. He'd been expecting it, but it still blew him out of the water. I smiled grimly. Thinking about it had the same effect on me, and I'd had two weeks to turn it around in my head. 

"Who?" His voice sounded funny, and I shrugged.

"No one you're gonna know."

I could see the struggle playing out on his face, and figured the only thing keeping him from roaring at me--or decking me--was the fact that we were in his office. Which was kind of what I'd had in mind, when I made the appointment.

"Are you stupid? No, don't answer that. I know you're not. Randy--what the *hell* got into you? You *aren't* stupid. You're bright, and educated, and you know what the fuck condoms are for--what--" He sputtered off into silence for a moment, watching me as I watched him. I swear I could see the anger fairly crackling along his skin.

"It just--happened, Quent. It wasn't planned--any of it. I just... it just happened." My voice went all soft; quiet, kind of, wondering. The same things I'd wondered for the last two weeks. Who all had Michael slept with, over the years? What all had he done--drugs? Orgies? The mind boggled, and I gripped my forearm a little tighter.

"It just happened." He aped my words, threw them back at me. "Randy--in this day and age--it doesn't 'just happen'. You don't fucking have sex with *anyone*--male, or female--without knowing their entire life history. And even then--you wear protection. It's not just stupid any more, it's--suicidal." The last word was offered quietly, and even lacking the verbal intensity of the rest, it somehow made up for it in imagery. I'd done volunteer work in hospices and clinics. I knew what AIDS looked like.

"I know." What else to offer? Tell him I hadn't thought with anything but my dick for almost 48 hours? I didn't think that would go over very well, all things considered. I straightened my shoulders and sat up. "Lecture over?"

"Should it be?" His voice was almost cold, though I knew it was anger, *fear*, that made it that way.

"Dammit, Quent, what d'you want me to say? That I regret it? That' I'm sorry? That I didn't mean to? *None* of it was planned, man. Got that? I met the guy--and that was it, for the weekend. I didn't go looking for anyone, if you're wondering if I was cruising Castro, and if I'd had half a second to think about it... consider it... I'd have done what I should have. But it--" It was so long. It'd been a hellatiously long time since I'd had anything but my own hand... and just the closeness of another human being had been enough to make me forget everything I should have remembered. "I don't regret any of it," I finished softly. "Just that I wasn't more careful."

His eyes narrowed, then softened a little. I knew he was remembering when I broke up with Bran, and the eight months of hell that had followed that.

"I wish you could meet someone--"

I cut him off at the pass with that one. "Even meeting someone isn't always the answer, Quent. You know that." 

"Bran--was unbalanced, Randy. You gotta believe that there's someone out there·"

"I don't want to go there, man. End of statement."

He considered me for a minute; I could see the thoughts rolling around inside his head. Quent was a great guy; a good friend. He'd been there for me through thick and thin. But I wasn't ready to take apart my psyche over a former partner I hadn't seen in almost three years.

"Want to tell me what made this guy you fucked with so special that you could forget something as basic as condoms?"

Someplace else I didn't want to go. How could I explain, when I didn't know, myself? I shrugged. "I told you, I don't know, Quent. It--happened."

"Yeah." He stared at me for a few unnerving moments, then gave me a half-smile. "The results of the blood test will be back in couple of days, but I don't need to tell you about the incubation period--"

"No." Months, years--it was anyone's guess as to how long it might take, if you absorbed the virus. I pushed it from my mind resolutely. For all I knew, Michael practiced safe sex as a rule, and that weekend had been a moment of complete blackout for him, too. Still, I wished I had asked him then. Or used condoms. I wished I had the chance to call him up and ask him, now.

I supposed I still could, but I knew I wouldn't. 

Quent's voice pulled me back from my reverie. "--last appointment before lunch. Wanna grab a bite? Been a while since I've seen you."

"Yeah, we could do that. I took the afternoon off, anyway."

"Well, I can't take the afternoon off--but I've got some time for a friend who looks like he needs some."

I managed a game smile. I wasn't sure I wanted to talk; probably needed to, definitely didn't want to. Michael had affected me on so many levels, and now all I could do was think about stuff; wonder if I'd ever get to see him again…anything. It was very strange, and unsettling, to think of how much that one weekend had affected me. Of how much I'd like to see him again--if I was honest with myself about it. How can you miss a person you barely even know? I'd spent two nights with the guy, for heaven's sake. But they were two of the best, most relaxing nights I'd ever had. Part of me wanted to hate him for making himself that important, that quickly. The rest of me knew that wasn't fair. It wasn't Michael Pierson's fault that he'd given me in spades stuff I hadn't realized I was missing *so bad*. "Yeah, let's have lunch. We'll see about the rest."

I stood up and headed for the door. Quent was right behind me, turning out the lights. Lunch would be pleasant, and maybe, if I did talk it out a little, I could put it past me. It'd been two weeks--if I hadn't heard from Michael by now--I probably wasn't. Time to move on.

Who knows what the fates have in store for us? Hard to say when or where Michael might turn up again, in my life. The first time had caught me by surprise; I was willing to bet the next one would be no different.

~finis~

Back to RandyMichael

Back to Shared Passions

Back to Main Index