I went to a free clinic in the Castro tonight to get an HIV/STD test. It's been five months since my last test. Throughout my 20's I was tested sporadically. Every couple of years I would wind up with a new physician or have to complete a form physical. I never worried about the results.
My sex life was intermittent and I used condoms whenever I had a regular partner. I didn't think anymore about the HIV test anymore than I worried about the testicular cancer check. There's always a possibility, but I felt young and in control of my life. Finding someone to have sex with was a bigger priority than worrying about the consequences.
Going through my recent experience with possible HIV infection, it occurred to me that I was being irresponsible in not getting tested more frequently. Going in once every couple of years isn't enough. So I've decided to be tested at least twice a year from now on. It feels like a byproduct of age. Sex is no longer a lucky indulgence; it carries a real and heavy responsibility.
I don't like thinking about it in those terms. I'm impulsive and swoon at the faintest suggestion of romance. Thinking of sex in terms of an infection I might have given to someone else makes me want to vomit. But confronting nausea is a part of adult life, like eating brussel sprouts.
I had unprotected sex in the end of September. My last test was in early November. My inner den mother tells me I'm due for another test.
So I looked up the closest free clinic, found one that offered after hours testing, and made my way to it after leaving the office for the night. The clinic was at a crowded intersection, right across the street form a disco. It had a bright neon sign outside, advertising its services. I felt a flash of shame walking to the front door. I still have some remnant stigma about sexuality inside; I wondered if people were looking at me, the stupid slut walking into the STD shop for a tune-up.
There were six or seven men sitting in the clinic waiting room, reading magazines. Nobody looked up as I walked to the reception desk. It was 7PM. They were open until 9PM. I thought I had plenty of time. I caught a hint of confusion cross the receptionist's face as I approached, undercutting his practiced smile.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
I didn't know what to say for a split second. Was there a proper and discrete way to get the point across? Was there an unspoken protocol I should have been aware of?
"I'm here for an HIV test," I told him.
He started looking around the reception desk and didn't respond immediately. He handed me a card and then explained that they were booked for the rest of the night. Apparently getting an HIV test at a free clinic isn't as simple as showing up and asking to be seen. He told me there were eighteen people already in line when they opened that morning. He told me to come back the next morning and expect to wait the whole day.
It looks like responsibility costs a full Saturday waiting in a lobby and not just sneaking in an hour before closing on a Tuesday. Sex has such long and inconvenient tentacles.
Previous Posts:
Date Machine: How To Pick Up a Bartender
Date Machine: Are You My Girlfriend Now?
PDA Machine: Making Out in a Bar
Sex Machine: The Cake is a Lie, or Does My Butt Show When I Walk?
Obituary Machine: Natasha Richardson, or Smoking Cigarettes on the Roof
Love Machine: Throwing Punches, or Get Your Hands Off of My Woman
Date Night: The Most Expensive Date I've Ever Been On
Sex Machine: Monogamy is for Losers
Sex Machine: I'm Not That Kind of Girl
Date Machine: Civil War and Sex on a Toliet
Date Machine: Living Like a Bachelor
Sex Machine: Chest Hair, or the Shaved Eunuch
Date Machine: Macho Voce, or Women Who Sound Like Men
Date Machine: Sex in the Office
Sex Machine: Lying Lovers; or the Padded Bra
Sex Machine: Premature Ejaculation