Chapter 4 Jamison
Jamison
I was one with my couch. My couch was my soulmate.
We could not be separated. I took another sip of my wine and sagged back into the cushions.
Sure, it was only two in the afternoon and I was on my second glass, but I was under a lot of stress, ok?
I was still waiting with bated breath for the results of Henry’s HIV test, and my nerves were strained.
I kept reminding myself that HIV wouldn’t be the end of my life even if he came back positive, but there was knowing that and there was knowing it, and I’d only managed one of the two so far.
With my free hand, I mashed buttons on the remote control and flicked through the various queues of shows and movies Netflix was recommending for me.
Feel-good comedies? Nope, fuck happy people.
Dark paranormals? No, thank you, I had enough darkness hovering over me.
Musicals? Probably a decent bet; if nothing else I could bop along and try to forget for a while.
But musicals were usually either over-happy or over-dramatic, and I didn’t really want either of those.
My emotions were on-edge enough that I’d probably start sobbing at either one.
More wine. Wine would make it better. I sipped.
Maybe I should call a friend? But I hadn’t told anyone what was going on, and I really didn’t want to have to explain it to anyone and then listen to the inevitable lecture about safe sex and being responsible.
I knew. I knew, ok? I didn’t need to hear it from anyone else.
It was my body, my life, and my fuck-up, but things happened.
I knew things happened. PrEP and PEP were a thing for a reason.
But somehow I felt like I was supposed to be better, more perfect, than that.
‘Things’ weren’t supposed to happen to me.
And I knew that was societal shame, and probably a little internalized homophobia, talking.
I knew that stigma was toxic and acting like I now carried that stigma was just feeding into the toxicity that permeated society, and that shining a light on it was both the adult and the healthy way to deal with things.
Was knowing all that reducing my sense of shame?
Not really. Fuck. I took another drink and picked up my phone, scrolling mindlessly through Insta.
Cute cat. Friend on vacation (fucking good for him, I’d give anything to be on vacation from my life right now).
Makeup guru experiencing beef, shocking exactly no one who paid any attention.
Ugh, none of this was going to distract me.
I thought again about calling a friend. Maybe I could just say that I was having a hard time without getting specific?
But I knew myself; I’d end up spilling the details and then I’d be back into the shame spiral.
Fuuuuck. I thumbed out of Instagram and back to my phone’s home screen, then into my texts, idly flipping from one conversation to the next.
No, she’d definitely lecture me. He’d be worried and I’d end up comforting him instead of vice versa.
My mom was just a big hell no. Maybe I could message my sister? No, lecture city.
Somehow, I ended up in the thread between me and Hen, re-reading our short conversations to date. Maybe I could…? He at least already knew what was going on and wouldn’t judge me, because he was in the same boat. Before I could think too hard about it, I started typing.
Me: Hey.
Hen: Hey. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you yet, I don’t understand why my results are taking so much longer than yours.
Privately, I worried that his were taking longer because his results were different, but I couldn’t think of a way to say that that didn’t sound accusatory, so I didn’t. Instead, I said:
Me: No problem. I’m having a quiet Sunday relaxing at home.
Hen: Oh, sounds nice. I’m doing chores. Turns out the laundry won’t do itself, no matter how long I put it off.
Me: Rude of it.
Should I say something about how stressed I was? I didn’t want to make him feel guilty - or, well, more guilty - but I kinda felt like I was going to pop if I didn’t let out some of this stress.
Me: Can I get serious for a minute? Sorry, I know it’s not your problem to deal with me, but I kinda don’t feel like I can talk to anyone else about this without a lot of explaining and probably getting yelled at and I just…I can’t with that.
Hen: Hey, no, say what you need to say. It’s my fault we’re in this situation, the least I can do is listen.
Me: It’s my fault as much as it’s yours.
But really it’s neither of ours. Shit happens.
Mistakes happen. Neither of us did it on purpose.
But so yeah I’m just…really stressed. I can’t even really explain why, because I know the odds are in my favor and that even if ‘the worst’ happens, I’ll be fine. Fine. Fiiiiine.
I paused for another sip of wine, draining my glass. Without stopping to think too hard about the wisdom of it, I refilled it from the bottle at my elbow.
Me: But there’s so much stigma still attached to HIV and HIV exposure and I just don’t feel like there’s anyone I can talk to without paying for it in judgment…except maybe you. So sorry, not sorry, you’re kinda stuck with me.
Hen: Hey, it’s fine. Vent away. Hell, I’ll start: I feel like an idiot and I’m scared shitless. I don’t think you could grow up in the 90s, especially suspecting you might be gay, and not be scared shitless by the very idea of HIV. Death sentence, Ryan White, Rent…
Me: Shit, yeah. And we’re living almost forty years later, and I know it’s different, but it doesn’t feel different. I just have this overwhelming, low-level sense of dread. It’s making it hard to focus on anything else, even stuff I usually love sinking into.
Hen: I haven’t been sleeping well. I had lunch yesterday with my best friend and I told him, and I mean, he was really matter-of-fact and understanding about it and didn’t judge me, but fuck, I went home after that and laid in bed and just stared at the ceiling for like two hours that I can never get back.
And then I got up and did some work and nearly cut a finger off because I wasn’t paying close enough attention to where I was cutting.
I’ve been cutting wood since I was seven, you’d think it would all be automatic at this point, but damn, I’m fucked up.
Hen: Wow ok I didn’t mean to blab that all over you. We were talking about you, not me. Sorry.
Me: S’ok. I know exactly what you mean, I promise you.
And there’s no reason you shouldn’t vent to me the same way I can vent to you.
Same boat, and all. But yeah sleeping is hard.
Talking to people is hard. Like, I was in a work meeting trying to focus on our weekly stand-up and half my brain is going ‘Ok the content removal numbers this week were down, we need to -’ and the other half my brain is going ‘Shout “I SWEAR I’M NEGATIVE” in the middle of your boss’s wrap-up’ and what even the fuck, brain?
Hen: Lol wtf brains. I get it. Not to get all touchy-feely or anything but do you have any coping mechanisms you can deploy? A favorite book to sink into, or a hobby, or…I dunno, heavy drinking lol
Me: [image of half-empty wine glass]
Me: One out of three ain’t bad?
Hen: Lol. Careful with that, a hangover isn’t going to make doing your work any easier tomorrow.
Hen: Wait, sorry, that sounded really paternalistic. Do whatever the fuck you need to do, is what I should have said. Sorry.
Me: Stop apologizing. You’re right, anyway. I just need to feel relaxed a little and this is the only way I know of to force that to happen given that I don’t have any edibles handy.
Hen: Oh damn I’d kill to spend an afternoon high but high-me is useless and I really gotta get this laundry done or I’m gonna be free-balling it tomorrow.
I giggled to myself. Somehow the phrase free-balling it was never not funny.
Then, mid-giggle, I got a mental image of Hen’s balls, which was somewhere between funny - because balls - and hot - because, well, balls.
I choked on my giggle. He’d had nice balls.
Not too large and not too hairy, but not tight and hairless like mine, either.
I hadn’t gotten a chance to suck on them the way I liked to do.
I wondered what that would have been like, how he would have reacted.
He’d been a grunter during our sex. Were grunts his thing?
Or might I elicit a whimper or squeak or two if I played with him just right?
My hand stole down to my cock, pressing gently, before I could catch myself.
A slight shiver ran through me. Then I realized I was still holding my phone and was mid-conversation with someone who had no idea I was touching myself and would probably be weirded right the fuck out if he did.
Not appropriate, Jamie. I pulled my hand away and gritted my teeth, focusing back on my phone.
Me: Tell me you’re not one of those people who puts off laundry until there’s literally nothing left to wear except a pair of ratty sweatpants that only come down to mid-calf.
Hen: That’s…oddly specific. And ok, I’m not the best at doing laundry but I’m not usually this bad.
I just…the focus thing this week. I kept thinking ‘Oh, gotta do wash’ and then I’d get distracted thinking about my test results or a project or hell, whether to braid my hair, and then boom, laundry forgotten.
Me: Wait, you can braid hair?
Hen: That’s what you got out of that statement?
Me: Sorry not sorry.
Hen: Yes, I can braid, but only regular braids, not French ones. But it comes in handy when I’m working. You really, really don’t want to get your long hair caught in your circular saw, believe me.
Me: Oh, ouch. Yeah, I can imagine. Do you think you could teach me to braid?
Me: Uh I mean.
Me: Nevermind. I didn’t mean to assign you work. Or force you to see me again.
Hen: I mean I’m not an expert hairdresser or anything. But braiding isn’t hard. I can send you some YouTube links if you want to try it out on ribbons or rope or something. But I’d also be happy to let you practice on my hair if you want sometime.
Hen: Wait, was that weird? You didn’t mean you wanted to stick your hands in my hair. Sorry, sorry.
This guy and his apologies. I wondered who’d taught him that he had to apologize for what he thought.
Me: Hey, no apologies necessary. I kinda was imagining your hair. Just because you’re the only guy I think I know with long hair right now. But yeah, send me the YouTube links, please. I’m not sure what I have to practice with but I’m sure I can find something.
There was no reply for a few minutes, long enough for me to worry I’d made it weird by saying I’d imagined his hair, and then a quick series of texts came through with links to four YouTube videos.
Hen: These should get you started. But really it’s easy once you get the rhythm; you just cross left over center, then right over center, and then do it again. The pieces kind of move themselves once you’re doing that.
Me: I just crossed and re-crossed my legs as if that was going to help somehow lol
Hen: If you manage to braid your legs, I’ll be both impressed and worried.
This time I tried crossing and re-crossing my fingers, with no more braiding success. Turned out my fingers weren’t long enough, who knew? I couldn’t stifle a laugh at myself. What the fuck even, Jamie.
Hen: We could, um, we could like get together some time? To practice?
Hen: Wait holy shit
I froze, looking at the screen. ‘Holy shit’ what? That didn’t sound good. Was he that shocked at having proposed meeting up again?
Me: What’s wrong???
Hen: No, sorry, nothing’s wrong didn’t mean to scare you. Just got the text from the clinic though. Hold on, let me load the page.
Not only did I hold on, I reflexively held my breath too as I let my hand holding my phone drop down to my side.
Suddenly the fear came rushing back. What if he came back positive?
What was I going to do? What was the next step when you had a good chance of being infected with HIV?
Did I just…sit and wait until it was time to test again?
That couldn’t be right, there had to be something I had to do.
Get on meds? At the very least, see my doctor, right?
When my phone buzzed again, my breath rushed out in a heaving gasp. I hadn’t realized I was still holding it. I yanked my phone back up and fumbled through unlocking the screen, which had turned itself off during the wait.
Hen: Syphilis: negative. HIV: Non-reactive. FUCK YEAH!
I gasped in another breath. Oh my god, it felt like Christmas morning and an orgasm rolled together. I was safe!
And I knew, intellectually, that this was just a probably-safe, not a final-safe. We still had to test again in a few weeks and then a few months. But for now, I was as safe as I could be and holy god was that a relief.
Me: Oh my god I feel like I practically just came in my pants. Reliefgasm? Is that a thing that exists?
Hen: It is now, because damn I know how you feel.
We sat in silence for a good minute. I didn’t know what Hen was doing, but I was just…
breathing. I’d known I was stressed and worried, but the level of tension that my body had released at seeing the word ‘non-reactive’ was incredible.
I felt like a wet noodle all of a sudden.
The afternoon wine-drunk sensation probably wasn’t helping with that, either.
Me: Fuck.
Hen: Fucking right.
Me: Fuuuuck.
Hen: All the fuck. You ok?
Me: I think so. I kinda feel like if I hadn’t already been sitting, I’d be on my ass right now.
Hen: I am literally sitting in a pile of my dirty clothes. So yeah. Right with ya.
Me: Ewww don’t sit on your dirty underwear! Now your pants are dirty too!
Hen: They miiiight be ratty sweatpants that end at my calves, so um no great loss.
I cackled right out loud.
Me: You’re such a guy.
Hen: I was under the impression you liked guys?
Me: Lol but I prefer them in clean pants if I get the choice.
Hen: I’ll keep that in mind when we meet for braiding lessons. Note to self: clean pants.
Me: Definitely clean pants.
I swallowed the last of my wine and forced the cork back into the bottle. I’d sat down with every intention of finishing the bottle, but I probably didn’t need to add any more alcohol to the cocktail of endorphins rushing through my bloodstream currently.
Hen: Hey I’m gonna go get my ass out of this laundry and get it into the washer, then maybe see if I can do some work without cutting off appendages. I’ll ttyl, ok?
Me: Ttyl.
I slumped back into the couch, closed my eyes, and heaved out a deep breath. Negative. Damn.
Between one breath and the next, I was asleep sitting up.