M4M

by Rick R. Reed

  “What truth?”

  “Oh, come on, Brian. There’s no one else who could have infected me. As the song goes, it had to be you.” Ethan almost laughed as he imagined doing his best Harry Connick Jr. impersonation and singing a few lines from the old standard. But he was afraid if he started laughing, it would turn giddy and breathless, hysterical, and would never end.

  Brian shook his head, and Ethan noticed his ruddy complexion had faded to ash. “I don’t think I am.”

  “What? What don’t you think you are?”

  “Positive. If I didn’t believe that, I never would have made love to you without protection.”

  Ethan didn’t know what to say. A new and even more sickening possibility dawned on him—maybe Brian was telling the truth. Maybe he was just as newly infected as Ethan… and that would mean there was someone else. That the fidelity he had counted on and prized was nothing more than a sham, another self-deluding lie he had told himself in his pathetic quest for connection.

  Ethan sighed. “Just get out.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re thinking. I don’t know. I just….” Brian stopped, and Ethan knew he was at a loss for words. Good. He didn’t need to hear any more from him right now. He didn’t think he could bear it.

  Ethan said slowly, “I can’t see you right now. I don’t know if I ever can, or want to, again. But you need to leave me alone. Can you at least do that much for me?” Ethan’s voice went up, shrill, on his question. Brian stepped toward him once more, arms extended.

  Ethan put up his hands. “Don’t. Out.”

  And Brian slowly shook his head, his expression pained, and turned to the door. He paused at the threshold, as if maybe waiting for Ethan to call him back. Ethan said nothing.

  Brian left, closing the door softly behind him.

  And Ethan sat on the couch and wept.

  AT HIS office at LA Nicholes, Ethan didn’t have much time to think about his diagnosis or where things stood with Brian or even what he should do next. Besides there being press releases to write about upcoming opening nights, interviews with actors and directors to be scheduled with newspapers, and calls to be returned, he had an appointment with a Ms. Jan Most, candidate for the recently open position of receptionist at the firm.

  LA Nicholes had just lost Benjamin Allread, a flighty little airhead of a man Ethan not-so-affectionately referred to as Bubbles, to a gay theater group looking for a publicity director. The glory of the title, Ethan was sure, was enough for Bubbles to overcome the paltry salary Ethan was certain Bubbles was getting.

  Jan Most was waiting for him in the conference room. She was a portly woman with spiky red hair, pale skin, and dark brown eyes. A sprinkling of freckles were scattered across the bridge of her nose. In spite of her bulk, she was dressed in a flattering way, in a dark purple tunic with cream slacks. Large silver hoops framed her face. Forgive me, God, for thinking that she looks like every other fag hag in the bars on Halsted. And before a word was even spoken or a hand was shaken, Ethan imagined a future with Jan Most, with the two of them out at Sidetrack on show tunes nights, shopping at Water Tower Place on the weekends, and spending depressing holidays together eating Thai takeout and watching old movies at each other’s apartments. Ethan shook the images out of his head and smiled at Ms. Most. He even remembered to extend his hand.

  “Jan Most? Hi. I’m Ethan Schwartz, senior publicist here. Welcome.”

  Jan stood to shake Ethan’s hand, and he felt sorry for the unkind way he had thought of her. From the twinkle in her eyes, her genuine smile, and the warmth that seemed to radiate from her, he knew he was wrong to prejudge.

  The two sat down, and Ethan glanced at her resume, which not only boasted a solid clerical background but volunteer work at the League of Chicago Theaters. Ethan shoved aside the buff-colored paper and asked the question that had been asked at the start of job interviews since the dawn of time.

  “So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

  “Well, I was an easy birth….”

  And at once Jan Most put Ethan at ease. Her background and maturity alone were enough for him to be sold on her before she had even spoken, but as they talked, Jan revealed a wonderful, warm, and often funny personality. For example, when he asked if she’d be willing to take a drug test as a precondition of employment, Jan deadpanned and told him she’d be willing “to test any drug you cared to put in front of me.” Ethan found himself laughing out loud, a possibility that, this morning, he didn’t think would be possible on this or any other day in the near future. By the time the interview concluded, Ethan was certain he’d be giving the thumbs-up to Jan Most when his supervisor asked if they should hire her. It was a testimony to the depressing economic times they lived in that such a bright and experienced woman was available for such a lowly spot in the firm.

  As Ethan walked Jan to the door and told her they’d be in touch, he thought back over their interview. One thing Jan told him stuck in his mind. She had a lot of outside activities—what the LA Nicholes Employee Manual called “work/life balance”—and one of them was being the mastermind behind a successful advice blog, Dear Jan. She told him how she had started doing it just for fun, writing sarcastic answers to silly questions she made up herself and posting them for friends and family to read. But someone, somewhere had seen the blog, told their friends and family and so on and so forth, and Jan confessed that she was as surprised as anyone when her blog, gone viral, was getting dozens if not hundreds of hits per day, and people were writing to her with real questions.

  Ethan sat at his desk and whispered, “Thank you, Jan Most, for taking my mind off my troubles for at least an hour.” He clicked on the Internet Explorer logo at the bottom of the screen, googled “Dear Jan,” and quickly found her column as the top hit in the rankings.

  The column was good. Jan displayed the kind of wisdom and common sense found on one of Ethan’s most guilty of pleasures, Judge Judy. But Jan’s genuine warmth and caring came through. Reading her blog made Ethan hope that her appointment to LA Nicholes would happen and would happen soon. He needed someone like her to talk to. He already wanted to confide in her.

  But he wouldn’t join the lovelorn and write to her.

  No, Dear Jan inspired another thought in him. A thought he was quick to reject but that he kept coming back to as his day progressed.

  Why not? There are thousands of blogs out there, and I would be anonymous, so what would the harm be? No one would probably even read what I wrote, let alone discover my identity. It would be a way to unburden myself… and maybe help some other poor soul in the same position, should he stumble across my blog.

  Ethan was thinking about creating his own blog, especially now, with this momentous and life-changing news right here at ground zero.

  His mind kept returning to the blog as he worked through his day, more productive than ever, probably since he was trying not to think about his personal life. He recalled how Jan had told him how easy it was to set up the blog, and the cost was next to nothing, save for the time one put in on it.

  He told himself not to be stupid. He told himself he had no use for such things. He could see a therapist or keep a journal if he wanted to unburden himself.

  But the idea of the blog kept coming back to him. And when he thought of the title for it, he was as good as writing his very first post. He would call it Off to See the Wizard of Poz.

  MUCH LATER in the day, Ethan allowed himself the time and the courage to make a phone call he had been dreading. Go ahead and make it, Ethan. Most likely he won’t even be there and you can just leave a message. After running his fingers up and down the telephone receiver several times and then deciding that doing so was plainly suggestive, he snatched up the phone and punched in the numbers that had been scrawled on his desk blotter for months.

  Given the way Ethan’s life went, he should have known that when he dialed the number, hoping to just leave a message, he would be connected immediately.
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  “Hi, Ethan. I’m glad you called.”

  “Well, I knew we needed to talk, and I just wanted a little time to process things before we did. Can we do this over the phone, or do you want me to come in?”

  “I think we can handle things over the phone,” Dr. Morris said. “I don’t want to put you to the trouble of coming back in.”

  “So give it to me straight, Doc. How long do I have?”

  Dr. Morris snorted and then broke out into a full-fledged guffaw. “Well, I’m glad to hear you still have your sense of humor.”

  “I wasn’t kidding.”

  There was a pause, and then Dr. Morris said, “No, of course not. But Ethan, haven’t you been keeping up with things HIV-related? I mean, as gay man to gay man, I would think you’d know that questions like yours aren’t all that applicable these days, not with the treatments we have. I have patients who were diagnosed twenty years ago and they’re as healthy as can be.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. Look, I’m not saying this isn’t serious. It is. And you need to get on medication right away. We’ll talk more about that in a minute. But I feel pretty confident saying you don’t need to worry too much about kicking the bucket any time soon, at least not because of HIV.” The doctor’s bright tone seemed to darken as he delivered the disclaimer the pessimist in Ethan knew was coming. “Now, I do need to tell you that, once in a while, we find patients who are resistant to treatment. Or we have patients who have side effects and have problems with the meds. You could be one of those. But the odds of that are slim. As I said, I have a whole practice full of healthy HIV-positive men who are leading normal lives with the help of just a few pills a day. We have more options today than we ever had, so if the first thing we try doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. Rest assured that I will take good care of you.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Ethan blew out a sigh of relief. He knew he shouldn’t be overly optimistic, but things sounded a lot better, health-wise, than he had thought.

  “Look. Give me the number for your pharmacy and I’ll call in prescriptions for Viramune and Truvada. These two work great in a lot of my patients, and you can just take three pills in the morning and you’re good to go. You have prescription coverage at your job?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Hang on to that insurance, because these drugs don’t come cheap. Just let me know how it’s going after the first few days, read the information about side effects, and we’ll see you in about a month to see how you’re responding. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Ethan brought up his local Walgreens address and phone number on his computer, gave it to the doctor, and hung up, feeling both relieved and a little stunned.

  It was good news, wasn’t it? He’d probably be okay, albeit burdened with expensive medications he might very well have to take for the rest of his life. He might even live to a ripe old age, killed by something other than the virus mutating right now in his body.

  Cheery thoughts. And cheerier still was the intrusion of another, darker idea. He could see no way he could have been infected other than through Brian. And that truth made the doctor’s good news seem lessened.

  All around him, the office had gone quiet as his coworkers headed out for the day. Outside, the sky was darkening. As he’d spoken with his doctor, Ethan hadn’t even noticed the shift in the day. And now he was troubled by thoughts of Brian.

  He needed to unburden himself. Although he thought he’d work on the blog at home in his spare time, he felt—well, was inspired the right word? Whatever the word, the blog—and its initial post—were calling to him to be written.

  He logged on to the web server Jan Most had told him about and started setting up his blog. He was surprised at how easy it was. Fill in a few blanks, choose a background template and the extras you might like to see displayed in a sidebar, and voilà! He was good to go.

  Ethan stared for only a brief time at the little blue button before him that said New Post. He clicked on it and was taken to a place where he could not only add text, but also hyperlinks, pictures, and more. Ethan was a simple guy and believed implicitly in the KISS rule: keep it simple, stupid. For now he would concentrate on the words.

  And the words, waiting inside him these past couple of days, rushed out without his having to think much.

  It took only twenty minutes, then twenty more to proofread, correct, and tweak, but in less than an hour, Ethan had his first Off to See the Wizard of Poz ready for publication.

  He read it over one more time to give himself time to decide if he really did want to post the blog. This is what it said:

  It’s been only a couple of days since my doctor broke the news and told me I was HIV positive. After the initial shock wore off, I wanted to jump up and point an accusing finger at the doc, shouting, “Hey, buddy, you got the wrong guy!”

  I couldn’t be HIV positive. Not me. Not a gay man whose sexual history read more like a haiku than an epic.

  Not me. Not a gay guy in his forties, pathetically involved in his first real love affair. Not me. This love affair that I talk about had seemed like more than “an affair.” No, this relationship had more the ring of future on it.

  I thought I had found my soul mate.

  I thought we were in a monogamous relationship.

  It’s tough enough getting the news that you’re poz. Tougher still to suddenly realize that this news points a very accusing finger at the man you thought you might wind up spending the rest of your life with.

  That’s not to say I wasn’t stupid. I guess I shouldn’t have believed him when he told me I was his one and only. Although my history of sexual encounters is sparse, I have known enough gay men to know that I’m the exception to the rule. My first mistake, I guess, was trusting one of my own. I should have known better than to believe his promises of fidelity.

  But I didn’t. And I was even stupider because I let him fuck me without a condom. I have no excuses. You can call me an idiot, a moron, and someone who needs to get with the times. But there were hot summer nights when I just wanted to feel him inside me, without a latex barrier. Just us. Skin to skin, as some put it. Bareback, as others do. And once you’ve crossed that threshold and passion is rising like a tidal wave, it’s very easy to let the act finish… with him inside.

  Yes, I let him come in my ass. There, is that bald enough for you?

  I can just hear my mother now, saying something like “Those who put their hands in the fire must expect to get burned.” Mom would also tell me I have no one to blame but myself.

  And I guess Mom’s right. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  He doesn’t know that I know. Not yet. And maybe he doesn’t even know he’s infected. I’ve thought through the scenarios, and he could still be in that “window period” you’ve heard tell about. That still doesn’t make me feel any better.

  Why? Because he either knowingly infected me or unwittingly did so, with the very likely possibility that he was fucking other guys behind my back.

  Neither of these possibilities is pretty to contemplate.

  I can’t talk to him right now. I can’t trust myself not to (a) break down into a snotty-nosed, sobbing mess, or (b) kill him.

  Neither of those would solve much. So for now, I keep my own counsel. It’s just you and me. Are you listening?

  Before I decide what I will do about him, I have to take care of me first. And that means drawing this first blog to a close and heading out to pay a visit to my friendly neighborhood pharmacist. He’s got a gift bag for me: two expensive drugs called Viramune and Truvada.

  Yes, folks, the guy who never smoked, never did drugs, and whose throat is still only on an acquaintance basis with hooch is about to become a habitual drug user.

  God save us all.

  No, Viramune and Truvada save me.

  I’ll write more when I’m ready. I can’t promise it will be every day, but I have a feeling you and I are going to get to know each other very well these nex
t few days, maybe even longer.

  Hello, my new friends: you and, of course, HIV.

  How could I forget?

  Ethan sat back and considered the blog staring back at him on the computer screen. He now had two options. One was Preview and the other was Publish. Ethan had already read his words through about four times, so he knew he didn’t really need to preview. There were no photos to double-check for proper loading, no hyperlinks to ensure were working. So he whispered to himself that old chestnut he had heard bandied about in his college days, “Publish or perish,” and hit the Publish button.

  It seemed like a momentous occasion. And then he reminded himself that, more than likely, no one but he would ever read the words he had written.

  But he did feel better, if only slightly. The burden on his shoulders had lessened by an ounce or two, and he knew he felt better because he was hungry. And he knew there was a bag of Doritos waiting for him at home.

  Ethan noticed, as he gathered up his things, that it was almost dark outside and the office was very quiet.

  As he left the office, he was surprised to see Jan Most sitting at the reception desk. Hadn’t he just interviewed her?

  Ethan smiled and cocked his head as he approached her. “What are you doing here?”

  Jan was wearing a pair of jeans and a man’s Oxford-cloth button-down shirt. She still jazzed herself up with lots of clunky sterling silver jewelry. She had a scarf wrapped around her red hair, and from what he could see of the pattern, Ethan thought it might be a reproduction of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Jan looked up at him and grinned. “Guess who got a job offer.”

  “That was fast!”

  Jan shrugged and said, “Hey, I wasn’t working. I was bored out of my skull, and so when they called me and asked when I could start, I said, ‘Tomorrow.’ I just worked it out to come in this evening and play around with the computer and phone system.” Jan laughed. “Don’t worry. Contrary to how it looks, I am not a workaholic. I just don’t want to look like a complete doofus tomorrow when I officially start.”