It’s early on Tuesday, I’ve essentially been up since 5:45. The morning’s awash in this tepid glow. It’s sunny, but there’s no direct sun on me yet. Give it 40 minutes, then it’ll have risen over the low-rise apartment building in front of my place. Summer’s virtually here. It’s been three days in a row of good, good bike rides, and Sunday I even got to do some crusted-earth trail riding and hit a few puddles along the way. Sweet! A fine time to be alive. And a great time to be in a good relationship.
Yesterday was test day. See that? Ugly fucker, isn’t it? The blood pooled under my flesh a bit, just by the needle’s merciless prick. Crimson skin’s there now. Friday, I’ll have my results. HIV, yada, yada. Testing sucks. But it’s a good time in a relationship. Didn’t I just say that? Here we go. Got the testing, baby. Naturally, I just sprung it on the Guy. Funnily, the very day he broke his leg, he planned to go get the full-meal deal of testing done. That was over a month ago. Freaked the shit out of me. “Eager, aren’t you? Jesus!” was essentially my line of thought. But I’m catching up, the fear’s ebbing, and I’m entering the “comfortably committed” mindset that usually eludes me for much, much longer.
So, it’s done like dinner, Martha. Oh, I hate needles. With a passion. As a kid, I was always unhealthy. I had needles drawn every single Friday for about five years. A variety of mystery illnesses plagued me back then. What can I say? I’m enigmatic. Even professionals think so.
But this wasn’t so bad. It was one of those medical people you look at and you think, “Hmm. She’s either really awesome at her job, or she’s gonna suck eggs.” She was awesome. Took seven — yeah, count ’em, seven tubes — for everything from diabetes to HIV and it barely even registered. Well done, nursie-girl! I nearly smooched her.
Y’know, as cool and collected as I sort of am about all this, there’s always something freaky when you see a vial of your blood sitting on a counter with a “CDC” sticker applied to it. (Centre for Disease Control for you off-continent types.)
There’s a reward though: The possible future of condomless sex. More moments, less hassle. A fine thing. Spontanaeity? Check. Throw down and get it on, any time, any where? Check. I’ll have me some o’ dat, thankyouverymuch!
Friday, the good word comes down. Me? Worried? Not at all. I’m a responsible girl and I have higher standards than it may sound like from time to time. Should be just dandy.
Testing: The New Measure of Monogamy. Yep. Gettin’ tests. There’s a plateau. Goin’ steady — and we mean it, dammit. Yep. All ready for the Spontaneous Throw-Downs, soon. Turns out the Guy’s never had outdoor sex. Well, well, well. He claims he’s more of a “winter” guy than a “summer” guy. If he’s never had outdoor sex, I could maybe see how that would be. But I know a trick or two to edumacate him on the finer points of warm nights and dewey grass. And maybe there’ll now be one less hassle when I get my schoolin’ on with ‘im. He’s so game. Lovely.
That’s all the writing you get today. I’m pissed off I’m up, so I’m smoking a little dope (sue me) and rolling back under the covers. It’s the first time this spring that ALL my windows and doors are ajar with a nice spring breeze blowing gently through my place, and I’m sitting around naked, and not freezing, and I love it. But I’d rather be under the covers. So, back to oblivion I shall go for an hour or two.