M4M

by Rick R. Reed

  It gave him the inspiration for his next blog post.

  So yes, I was online, on one of those hookup sites. And lest you think I was on there cruising, get your mind out of the gutter. I don’t really know if I’m ready to admit why I was on there, either to myself or to you, but let’s just call it a little social experiment.

  One thing that will let you know I wasn’t online for naughty purposes was the dispassion I felt as I paged through the site with its come-ons, its cries for help, its attempts at wit, and its leave-nothing-to-the-imagination photographs (or pics, I guess you would say… I really must get with the times one of these days!). Like the hopeful in A Chorus Line, I felt nothing. But this allowed me to view the site somewhat objectively, and what stuck out to me and what really caught my eye—over and over again—was a little shorthand that many guys had chosen to include in their ads. This shorthand made this newly diagnosed HIV-positive man feel excluded, hurt, and alone.

  The term? NEG UB2.

  So short, so to-the-point. So cutting. So cruel. It’s equally as bad as a few other key phrases designed to keep the “unworthy” at bay, phrases like “No fats” or “No fems.” But it’s NEG UB2 that really got to me.

  Do the people who put that in their “what I’m looking for” realize how casually hurtful that phrase can be? Do they stop for a moment to consider that someone—or even many someones—out there reading this hateful little phrase may be newly diagnosed and struggling? Or maybe they’re not new to HIV or AIDS itself and came to this online community looking for a little love, a little companionship, and maybe a feeling of being included? Do they stop to think how very STUPID the phrase is? Not just in its cruelty, but also in the fact that if they think it’s some kind of magic phrase to screen out all potential suitors who are HIV positive, they’re using something that’s probably as effective as a condom full of holes? Just saying you’re negative and asking someone else to be the same way does not make it so.

  Trust me. I know.

  I also know that maybe, in their misguided, unthinking way, these guys are just looking to protect themselves from contracting a disease that may seriously impact the rest of their lives. Even though my doctor tells me that an HIV diagnosis no longer has to be viewed as a death sentence, it still is a life-changing illness, albeit one that’s not quite as life-threatening as it once was. If you don’t have it, you don’t want to get it.

  Trust me. I know.

  But even if you put that phrase in your profile as a means of self-protection, consider what you’re doing and how it might affect someone else online. Someone like me, who already feels singled out and, in his worst moments, like damaged goods no one will ever want again. That phrase makes my lowest moments plunge lower.

  Whatever your intentions, ignorant, self-preservative, or just plain callous, consider this. You can make the same message without making someone feel so bad. Simply stating what you believe is your own status—healthy negative and would like to stay that way—is a gentler way of getting across the point: “I’d rather not get involved with someone who is HIV positive because of the risk.” And it’s certainly kinder than saying NEG UB2.

  Or maybe—and here’s a radical notion—maybe you should just do away with phrases like NEG UB2 or a gentler variation and say nothing at all. Take your chances. Make your connections based on things other than someone’s medical history. There are ways to protect yourself. There are couples out there who are one-half poz, one-half neg… and they make it work.

  And besides, if you’re looking for sex online, isn’t it wise to simply assume everyone is poz? And then you can really protect yourself… rationally and thoughtfully.

  Ethan pushed himself away from the desk a few inches and regarded the screen. He thought what he had written was a bit of a rant—well, more than a bit, really—but he decided it needed to be said. So he pushed the Publish button once more, thinking he was sending his thoughts into virtual ether but wishing, for the first time, someone else would read what he had to say.

  A FEW days later, when he got to work and logged in to his blogger account, he was surprised to see there were comments left on his Off to See the Wizard of Poz blog. Ethan hadn’t even realized one could leave comments, figuring no one was probably out there reading it anyway. How would they ever find it?

  But there were not just a few comments, but dozens. Ethan gasped as he looked down at the messages left for him, spilling over onto three pages. How did they know? How could they have possibly found his blog when even Google had yet to take notice? He knew because he’d checked.

  Ethan felt a curious mixture of shock, fear, and—as he started reading—love.

  The first set of comments was for the blog he had written about his new meds and their cost. As he read, he felt a twinge of shame for his complaining about how much something that could save his life and, indeed, allow him to live a healthy existence, cost in dollars and cents.

  Man, you hang in there. You have lots of people out here who are sending good, strong, healthy energy your way.

  Hey, buddy, you’re not alone. I was just diagnosed two months ago. But you know what? My doctor is taking good care of me. Thanks to the meds he started me on right away, my viral load is now undetectable! From, like, ten million copies! I will be fine, and so will you. Just eat right, get plenty of rest, take good care of yourself, and you’ll be around to see many, many more days.

  Yeah, the meds are expensive. And the drug companies are raping HIV-positive people for profit. But you know what? Those meds are keeping my dad alive and healthy, and that’s what I (and you) have to concentrate on. Who knows if the outrageous prices the pharmaceutical companies are charging are fair? I do know that many doctors and scientists put in untold hours and lots of hard work to develop these drugs to help people live. And when you put a dollar sign next to whatever symbol is out there for life, then, IMO, it’s pretty easy to see which one wins out.

  Pay the price. Live.

  So sorry to hear you’ve been diagnosed as HIV positive. Thanks to years of not-always-welcome safe sex, avoiding party drugs, and taking reasonable care of myself, I’ve been lucky and have managed to avoid getting infected. It isn’t an easy thing to live with, as I know from many of my friends (many of them no longer around… they didn’t last too long after they were diagnosed back in the late 80s, early 90s… they weren’t lucky enough to have the drug cocktails you’re blessed with). But you have to count your lucky stars, my friend. Yes, you are lucky. You are lucky to have caught this thing early, in a time when there are good, solid treatments for it.

  So stop wallowing in self-pity. Pray to whatever higher power you pray to or think about or avoid and give thanks for being allowed to survive, to be well, and to move on into life’s next chapter.

  There were lots more comments, almost all of them in the same vein. And not one of the comments was negative. Not one of them told him he got what he deserved or scolded him for being careless. Ethan felt a hot rush of tears spring to his eyes. Other than Brian, he had yet to tell anyone of his diagnosis, and now—he looked down at the comments again—he saw that at least twenty-four people knew… and every one of them was on his side. Through blurred eyes, Ethan took in all the messages—filled with compassion, hope, encouragement, and even love. Here were a couple of dozen people who didn’t even know him, who took the time to write him messages showing they cared. Was this really such an awful world? Was even his diagnosis such a bad thing? Oh sure, his liver might say “Yes, honey, it is such a bad thing.” But if it suddenly led to his realization that he wasn’t as alone in the world as he thought, maybe there was a reason for that horrible doctor’s visit and depressing news after all.

  For a brief moment, Ethan thought about fate and about how we shouldn’t always question the curve balls life throws our way.

  “Excuse me, Ethan?”

  Ethan sat up, startled, as if he had been caught masturbating. He hurried to wipe the tears from his eyes and minimize t
he screen upon which Off to See the Wizard of Poz was displayed. He looked up at Jan Most, standing in the opening to his cubicle, and gave what he knew had to be a sickeningly sheepish grin. Heat rose to his cheeks and the tops of his ears. He noticed the bouquet of irises she held in her hands, like a bridesmaid ready to start up the aisle.

  “Don’t tell me you’re here to propose?” Ethan giggled, knowing his laughter was a little too high, a bit too close to hysteria. “Girl, didn’t they tell you I don’t swing that way? Really, Jan, I’m flattered, but—” The giggling continued. If he were able to maneuver his legs just so, he would have kicked himself under the desk, hard enough to leave a bruise on his shin. Hush now!

  Jan regarded him quizzically, her carefully arched eyebrows ascending even higher. She shook her head. “Sweetheart, if I set my mind to it, I could make even an old queen like you turn. And don’t you forget it!” Jan sashayed up to his desk, a big smile on her face, silver jewelry clacking, and lovingly placed the bouquet before him with a small curtsy and a big wink. “These just came for you, Lover Boy.”

  And with that she hurried from his office, leaving an aromatic trail of Shalimar in her wake.

  Ethan bent down to sniff the posies, even though he already knew that irises’ charms lay in their looks and not their smell. He shook his head, picking up the flowers and admiring them. He knew who they came from and was uncertain if he should even bother to open the card. It would just complicate things.

  Still, it was a much stronger man than Ethan who could resist opening a card that came with flowers. He burrowed a finger under the buff envelope’s flap and tore it open. Inside, predictably, was a message from Brian:

  We cannot live, except thus mutually

  We alternate, aware or unaware,

  The reflex act of life; and when we bear

  Our virtue onward most impulsively,

  Most full of invocation, and to be

  Most instantly compellant, certes there

  We live most life, whoever breathes most air

  And counts his dying years by sun and sea.

  But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth

  Throw out her full force on another soul,

  The conscience and the concentration both

  Make mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole

  And aim consummated, is Love in sooth,

  As nature’s magnet-heat rounds pole with pole.

  Ethan immediately recognized the poem. He had, after all, been an English major, and one with an undeniable bent toward the romantic. The poem was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Love.”

  He set the flowers aside and turned in his chair to look out the window. Outside, the leaves were at their peak. Luminous orange, amber, yellow, and red competed for attention in the brilliant sun, a golden orb in a sky so blue it seemed the birds high up would be stained by its color.

  You should call him. Tell him all is forgiven. What he did or didn’t do… who cares? How can you ignore a man who can quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning? How can you ignore a man who cares enough to send the very best? Lesser mortals would have thought a Hallmark card might have done the trick! But not my Brian!

  Ethan closed his eyes, blotting out the picture-postcard landscape. Don’t. Don’t let yourself be won over by cheap sentiment, by the colors of autumn, by sunshine, by a mini outpouring of internet love. This is a man who betrayed you. And he deserves, at the very least, to be punished. Don’t be a ninny. He took you in before. Don’t let it happen again. To paraphrase that über gap-toothed diva, Madonna: Don’t settle for second best, baby.

  Ethan opened his eyes and tried to tell himself that he really would be better off on his own. He swung his chair back so he faced his computer monitor. There was work to be done. He was not being paid to sit here and moon over failed romances or to blog, for heaven’s sake. There was a new play opening in three weeks at the Goodman, and he still needed to write a press release about it and get it sent out.

  But Sensible Ethan was no match for Compulsive Ethan. Were there comments left from his NEG UB2 blog?

  Of course there were. And in spite of the chance of interruption by Jan Most, another coworker, or—God forbid—the IT department, he had to see what they said.

  Dude! I am one of the guilty. I used that phrase NEG UB2 in my posts all over the interwebs. I never really thought of things from your perspective. I never really thought that those words could hurt someone. I just wanted to try and protect myself, like you said. You make a good point, but seriously, dude, I can’t really change it. But I will take it under advisement that there might be a kinder, gentler way of saying it. But I am NEG… and I wanna stay that way.

  As the mother of a son who died from AIDS back in the early days (1990), your blog brought tears to my eyes. How can people be not only so thoughtless but also so heartless? I hope that your blog changes some minds and gives people pause when they think of just ignorantly lashing out at a whole group of people. People, I might add, who have a lot more to offer than simply a negative HIV status.

  I am right there with you, bud. I am poz as well, and when I see that online, it really pisses me off. Good on you for telling ’em! I’m gonna tell my friends in my HIV positive support group about your blog.

  You make some good points. But I have to make my own here. You can’t blame someone for trying, even in a way that you might not consider tactful, to protect themselves from a virus that, as you say, is life-changing. And sometimes the shortest way to say something is the best way. I am HIV NEG and sorry UR NOT.

  Whoa! Ethan thought, just as he was ready to climb on a high horse and crown himself king—or should that be queen? Hush!—of all that was kind and right in online etiquette, that last comment caught him up short, and he realized he wouldn’t change everyone’s mind.

  Not today, anyway.

  He read on and was gratified to see, though, that the many, many messages that had filtered in were almost all supportive. Perhaps there were callous people who would use a term like NEG UB2, but there were also, obviously, tons of people out there who were kind and compassionate… and made the time to tell him so.

  There was a lump in his throat.

  Work, Ethan, work! You know… that thing they pay you for. You might want to do a little before quittin’ time!

  Just before he clicked out of his blog, he glanced down one final time at all the comments and shook his head, his heart swelling with emotion. Stop it! Get to work! You have meds to pay for!

  Thus chastened, Ethan shut the window displaying Off to See the Wizard of Poz and started thinking about an attention-getting headline for his latest press release. But just as he closed his blog and the comments to him vanished into virtual ether, he wondered once again.

  How on earth did they find my little blog?

  A COUPLE of days later, Ethan came into work early so he could be alone to write his next blog post. Sure, he could have done it at home and, having done so, might have avoided the sleepless night he endured, but somehow composing here in this little cubicle worked for him. This was where it had all begun, after all.

  So in spite of feeling weary to the bone, complete with itching eyes and an exhaustion that made his whole body feel weighted, he took a sip of his Starbucks double-shot espresso, powered up his computer, and tried to think about what to say. The blog, so quickly, had become like a friend and confidante. He felt as if he were pouring out his cares to a trusting and nonjudgmental soul.

  And he was.

  Before long he was free-associating, and his fingers, almost of their own will, were flying over his keyboard, translating symbols into words and words into emotions.

  I didn’t sleep well last night. I suppose the blame could lie in worry over the side effects of my new meds, which include such minor annoyances as liver failure, kidney problems, dizziness, diarrhea, rash, headaches… and gas. Lord knows I need no help in that final area! Anyway, so far so good with the meds: no immediate side effects, anyway.
And deep down, I know that’s not what kept me up last night.

  No, I know what kept me turning from one side to the other, then on my back, then over on my stomach. Kept me turning the bedroom TV (the lonely guy’s best friend!) off and on, hoping for more entertaining fare than infomercials and the latest Lifetime thriller or rerun of The Golden Girls. (And did they really need to show the one where Rose has to get tested for HIV last night of all nights? Sheesh!) One more glass of water. Two more pees.

  It was a nightmare. But not really, because I couldn’t sleep!

  No, what I was really tossing and turning about was my boyfriend, partner, lover, or ex… whatever term is in vogue at the moment. What I have not shared with you here on this blog is the fact that he—let’s call him Jack—has been an almost equal worry with the fact that I have been diagnosed with HIV.

  See, Jack and I met about six months ago. I won’t go into the details of our little love story, but like many people’s, it was filled with a few bumps (especially at the beginning… oh, man, is that a story… maybe another blog), a lot of laughs, and eventually, what I thought was true love.

  But then came the afternoon in my doctor’s office and the shocking news he delivered. Once I had digested that the tests were not wrong and that I was indeed positive (and has this word ever rung more negatively?), I began thinking about Jack and asking questions.

  How did I get infected?

  How did I get infected when I’ve had a love life that probably more closely rivals that of Mother Teresa than Don Juan?

  And if that’s the case, did Jack give me the virus that began replicating in my bloodstream?

  And if he did infect me, did he already know he was HIV positive?