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.

But almost a year later, the thrill has worn off. The supply of suitors has dwindled, hours of pampering have been reduced to a ten-minute shower and a pair of jeans I wore the day before, and the life stories I end up retelling on the first date become shorter and a lot less interesting.

That’s the part I hate most about dating.

First we ask if the other is a native Texan and where they were born. I explain I was born in Brooklyn and moved to Texas when I was in the first grade. Then they ask how to pronounce my last name, and I playfully make them guess. When they get it wrong, I smile and correct them. Then we’ll talk about our families and pets. I explain I’m allergic to both cats and dogs, and they tell me all about their little shitsu named Sadie. From there we move on to past dates and longest relationship (but tiptoe around any deep discussion about our exes). Then we’ll talk about where we live and battle over uptown versus downtown. When dinner is over, he’ll ask why my necklace is shaped like a chili pepper, and I’ll indulge him with a laugh and explain it’s really a “cornicello” or “small horn,” and it’s an Italian good luck charm that my grandfather wore. The waitress will ask if we’ve saved room for desert, and I’ll say, “I’m so full I’d have to put it in my pocket and take it with me.” Hilarious. And the evening will close with, “I had a nice time,” and “Drive safe.” Hug.

It’s enough to make a person a sick.

I wasn’t upset when Chris told me this afternoon that he only saw us as friends—I appreciated his honesty. I’m just tired of telling strangers the same stories.

As sad as this is to admit, it was the first invitation to a date that didn’t originate online. I was ecstatic—even more so when he first appeared at my door and turned out to be not only normal, but quite attractive to boot. And successful.

After that first date, we saw each other almost every day. I’d stop by his apartment to say hello; I’d cook him homemade dinners which we ate on the rooftop; he’d take me to parties and art galleries.

I also must admit that the sex was some of the best I had ever had. For two people who had known each other for only a month, it was incredibly intense and passionate. One night, it lasted for an amazing six hours before we collapsed into sleep at four in the morning.

And then it was the day after Valentines Day, and we had just finished watching my first Woody Allen movie. I paused the rolling credits and put on some music. Then I turned to him in bed and asked, “So what’s this health thing you mentioned yesterday but didn’t want to talk about?”

After 20 minutes of silence, through tears, he told me he was HIV positive and had been so for the past seven years.

We had had unprotected sex twice.

I cried more in the three months that followed than I ever had in my life. For those unfamiliar with the HIV testing process, it takes up to three months for blood tests to detect HIV. Until that time, you must wait. And wait I did.

I also had a lot of time to think: To think about all of the ways I had disappointed and hurt my family and friends; I thought about a future filled with sickness, hospital visits, and medical bills; I thought about my parents outliving me and having to suffer through watching their youngest son die.

But what haunted me the most was the prospect that I’d be alone for the rest of my life. How could I expect someone to love me unconditionally when I myself am too selfish to do the same?

So many things to think about in those three months. Every itch and every cough had me convinced it was a symptom, and I was surely positive.

The second week of May, I began calling around to different clinics in the area to setup an appointment to get tested. The woman on the phone from Southwestern Medical Center was an unprofessional, unsympathetic bitch. So I called another clinic, but they were out of rapid tests.

There are two types of HIV tests to choose from. With the traditional test, your blood is sent away to a lab, usually offsite, to be analyzed. Rapid tests are relatively new and cost more. The blood is extracted onto an applicator similar to a pregnancy test. One bar means negative—two bars is positive. The result appears within 10 minutes.

The third clinic I called was in the Cedar Springs area and provides health services almost exclusively to the gay community. The man’s voice on the phone sounded gentle and friendly, so I booked my appointment for that Friday.

Unfortunately, they had already run out of the rapid tests the day of my appointment, so I opted for the traditional test and was told my results would be ready the following Monday. I sat in the waiting room for 10 minutes watching Ugly Betty, and was finally called on by my anonymous number, a combination of my birthdate and social security number. I shook the volunteer’s hand, and told him he could call me Monte.

We sat down in a small room with two, plush, oversized chairs and several boxes of half-empty tissue. A poster on the wall had some clever slogan related to safe sex. Five minutes later, I shook the man’s hand and left. While walking back to my car I felt as if all of the gays in the neighborhood on their lunch breaks were staring at me knowing fully well where I had just come from.

That weekend was surprisingly relaxing. The following Monday, I drove back to the clinic on my lunch break—they don’t give results out over the phone. While sitting in the waiting room, I tried analyzing the faces and expressions of the receptionist and other volunteers trying to decipher my fate.

The volunteer called my number and brought me back to the same room, only this time he didn’t bother closing the door.

“Well, the results came back and you tested not positive.”

When I stumbled back to my car, I buried my head in my hands and cried for the last time out of relief.

So of course, that night I have a nightmare that there’s a shootout on the streets of downtown. It all began when I was on my way out the front door of the building, and I heard an urgent whisper off to my right. I stop short of the door and look over to see a female police officer crouched behind a desk and motioning for me to come over. I hurry to her side and she quickly explains the situation: A group of armed men have taken control of the streets and are gunning people down. She points to the large window in front of us that overlooks Main Street. From the window I could see the flicker of gunfire on the first floor of the Neiman Marcus. I stepped back so terrified that I began to cry.

Then the dream switched scenes, and this time the gunmen were in the building, and I was frantically running up flights of stairs and dodging in and out of vacant apartments trying to escape.

It was at this point in the nightmare that I was awakened by an alarm and a woman’s voice on the loudspeaker in my apartment telling me to “Please exit the building.”

Was I still dreaming? Had the dream become reality? I jumped out of bed, and the fire alarm stopped. I walked over to the window and checked the streets.

No, I didn’t see any gunmen, and there were no flashing lights or sirens. Just a few drunk hobos.

I slipped on a pair of jogging shorts (which is funny seeing as though I don’t jog), and I stepped out my front door into the hall. A neighbor also poked his head out (he was fully dressed, unfortunately), and asked if it had been a false alarm. I walked barefoot into the main hallway and peered over the railing of the staircase to see only one couple and their dog walking down the stairs to the lobby. I called out and asked if it was a false alarm. They said they didn’t know.

So I went back to my place, got into bed, and called the front desk. “We’re not sure, sir. We have security over there right now checking it out.”

Today I found out what happened. A group of people had mistakenly gone down to the basement level and forgot to bring their key fob with them. Because they didn’t have the fob, they couldn’t get back on the elevator and were trapped in the basement (which is actually a parking garage). After an hour of sitting there waiting for a resident to open the garage door, they decided to pull the fire alarm.

Today is the fourth of July and the seventh holiday I’ve spent alone and single. First there was Halloween in which the previous two years were spent at the Cedar Spring block party with James. The first year we spent together, James and I dressed up as the Ambiguously Gay Duo from Saturday Night Live both sporting blue spandex from head to toe and yellow underwear—I was Ace. For our second Halloween, I made a primitive swan dress and went as Bjork. James dressed like a cowboy and went as one of the main characters from Broke Back Mountain.

Then there was Thanksgiving—also alone. I had dinner with the family, and my aunt turned to me at the dinner table and asked, “So how’s James?” I was touched that she cared, but I had to smile through clenched teeth and say, “We’re no longer together.”

Christmas was right around the corner—my first Christmas after having moved out of my parents’ house. I slept over there Christmas Eve night in what use to be my old room. I felt out-of-place tucked away in my old twin bed. It felt familiar, but not entirely. And again, I was alone.

New Years Eve: My date cancels on me due to food poisoning, and I spend the night soaking in the tub and getting drunk off a bottle of champagne I bought at the CVS down the street. I was in bed by 11:30 but was awoken at midnight by the sound of cars honking and people cheering.

And then it was Valentine’s day which was by far my worst holiday ever—one which I will never forget. The guy I had been dating and sleeping with for the past month told me he was HIV positive and had been so for the past seven years—just a small detail he left out while we were fucking. Three months of unimaginable pain and grief later, I got tested and the result came back negative. Hallmark should come out with a card that says, “Happy Valentines. I got you HIV this year.”

For my birthday this past May, I got drunk and slept with my best friend—who already has a boyfriend.

And today, for the fourth of July, I wrote this journal entry and forgot to go up to the roof to watch the fireworks.

We’ll see what the next holiday brings.