Monte

My views of sex changed dramatically after the incident with Jordan last February.

Up until that point, I had always been fearful of sex and very much aware of my partner count. Every time I’d sleep with a guy, I’d imagine another strike being added to the imaginary blackboard I kept in my head which tracked how much of a slut I thought I was. In truth, I’m not a slut at all, especially compared to most other gay men my age. But regardless, I’d always feel guilty after sleeping with someone. To be honest, my views of sex were a bit prudish.

My prudish attitude was based both out of fear of being labeled a whore (I have a very unhealthy obsession with what people think of me) and the fear of contracting an STD.

I always assumed that I’d be fine just as long as I chose my partners carefully. After Jordan told me he was HIV positive, I discovered that it doesn’t matter much who you choose to be with because the truth is that you can trust nobody. And so I’ve adopted a new view of sex. Have fun, be safe, and trust no one.

So life has been pretty fun since adopting this new point of view, and I’ve experienced some of the best sex of my life. That is until a month ago when I hooked up with a 40-year-old doctor. I don’t usually name drop, but I’ll make an exception in this case. The guy’s name was Timothy Collins, and he’s an osteopath in Arlington.

On the night that we met, I drove out to his house in Arlington (he insisted I go to him), and he greeted me at his front door with a very peculiar air of nonchalance. I also noticed as he led me into the back of the house that all of the lights were off except in his office where another man around my age sat text messaging on his phone.

Tim introduced me to the young man, he said hello, and then I was led into the bedroom. I asked Tim, “Who’s that? Is he staying?” Tim responded nonchalantly, “Oh, that’s just a friend. I didn’t know he was stopping by. He’ll probably leave soon.”

I was still trying to compute this answer when I noticed the odd decor in the bedroom. The whole back wall behind the bed was covered from floor to ceiling with mirrors. The bed was pulled about a foot away from the wall, and on the opposite side of the room was a large flat panel TV affixed to the wall with a porno playing.

Attempting to break the ice, I asked, “So you like porn?”

What a silly question. What gay man doesn’t like porn?

We got in bed, and began to kiss. I kept glancing back at the bedroom door which was partially ajar. I kept imagining that the other guy might waltz in naked any minute expecting a spit roast (which I may or may not have been comfortable with).

So we’re on the bed fooling around, and he’s just about to slip on a condom when I notice the camera on the wall.

Now we’re not talking about some amateur handheld sitting atop a bookcase. This camera was a small black orb, like the ones you’d find in a retail store. I stared at the orb installed high up on the wall for a good minute not sure how to react. Tim must have noticed my sudden lack of participation because he paused, and that’s when I said very flatly, “You’re filming this, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

In that same false nonchalance, he answered with a simple, “No.”

“Then why is there a camera on the wall?”

And here’s the kicker. He says, “Oh, that? That’s just a security camera. It’s pointed at the TV, and it’s dark in here so it doesn’t see much.”

I stared at him in disbelief for a second and then responded, “I’m gonna leave now.”

And so I did. I quickly got dressed making sure I still had my phone and wallet on me, and walked quickly back through the dark house to the front door where I fumbled with the door knob—stupid lube. He came up behind me, and without saying a word, he turned the knob for me and I left.