Spilt Milk

Monday rush hour. Braving the rain, armed with my trusty umbrella, I took a jeep to the MRT station. Jam-packed and with the plastic sheets pulled down over the windows, yes, I was kept dry, but I suddenly felt my claustrophobia creeping in. Logically, my eyes went to the rear of the jeep, hoping to at least see some air. But no, someone was hanging off the back of the jeep, blocking that view as well. But against what little light there was, I felt the man’s eyes looking at me. Was he smiling? At me?

I checked him out a bit. He was probably in his mid-20s, tall, fair-skinned, dressed in just jeans, a shirt and a cap, and good looking, I thought. I remember wondering if it was someone or something else he was looking at. But I still felt it was me he was looking at. I shrugged it off. He got down ahead of me, and I eventually lost sight of him.

Making it up to the MRT platform, I stood at my usual place, the middle door of the third coach. Waiting for the next train to come, I couldn’t help but look around. I was surprised to spot the same guy standing just two meters to my left... and still looking at me... this time, from head to toe. I was now sure he was checking me out, complete with an impish smile on his face. I busied myself looking around, panicking, honestly. I regret trying to check on him with my peripheral vision, only to realize he now stood right beside to me. Oh, fuck.

When the train finally came by, everyone seemed to get sucked into its open doors. Rushing in, I felt a hand wrapping around mine... yes, it was him. I couldn’t help myself. The next thing I knew, my hand had betrayed me and clasped back, revealing my interest in him, too. Inside, he made sure to stand next to me. It seemed he still wasn’t convinced that I was interested, and still made little efforts of looking my way, rubbing elbows, and finally holding my hand as he concealed it with his bag. I looked back, rubbed back and held back. That’s what he was waiting for.

He soon struck up a conversation of whispers. We introduced ourselves and found out I lived near his brother’s place, where he stays on weekends. He asked if he could drop by sometime... I said maybe. I was getting off ahead of him, so before we got there, he asked for my number and saved it on his phone. He rang me up to make sure I got his number, too. It was time for me to get off... the train, that is. And with that, I fell in love with the MRT.

I just felt so good about myself. It was such an ego boost. He was just... so... interested! I couldn’t believe how aggressive this younger guy was. Or maybe he just judged my age wrong. I’d blush if that was the case. But honestly, it was so extremely flattering. His moves gave me the kiligs.

We were texting a bit during the following hours, and establishing our preferred roles in bed, it was clear he was after sex. And we were a perfect match. I jokingly guessed that he had a relationship, which he confirmed... he had a girlfriend. Okay, I can deal with that. And so it was set, we were to meet the following Saturday. He was to come to my place... honestly, I was excited. But then my dilemma of revealing my secret came with the excitement.

During the following days, I tried not to worry too much. It was my hormones that were taking control. I cleaned my room and changed the beddings, and even replenished my supply of prophylactics. It should’ve been so simple, but not for me. I knew I was worried, because I found myself asking a number of my friends whether I should tell this guy about my HIV or not. Opinions varied, and I was still at a loss. The decision would still be mine to make.

Well, it was more like I knew what was right, but didn’t want to take the risk of “losing” this guy. I didn’t want to make the decision. So Saturday crept up slowly and the time to decide was looming. He just couldn’t wait. Friday night, he sent a message asking if we could meet already. This was it.

I was in a jeep when I replied, finally revealing my little secret. I told him I was bothered about not telling him about it, and mentioned that it was my way giving him the chance to change his mind. Honestly, I was expecting the worst, but really hoping for the best. I stuffed my phone back into my pocket as soon as it was sent, anxious of what reply I was going to get.

After five minutes, I checked for a reply. Nothing. Another five minutes. Still nothing. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was thinking about it. For the next hour, I was flipping my phone every five minutes... and the realization that he was no longer interested was hitting me again and again and again. I felt sad. Sad that I was reduced to an HIV-status. Sad that it tipped the scales against me.

Do I regret telling him? Well, the sex in me says “Sayang!”... but my consuelo-de-bobo would be that hopefully he realizes that you can’t tell one’s HIV-status just based on looks alone. Hopefully, he’ll play safe from now on. But damn! I really, really wanted him!

So there, I chose to do the right thing, but ended up with nothing. I guess the worst part about it is that he completely lost interest, not even considering the option of being friends at least... he just didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Ouch.

But you know what? I can’t blame him. That was just the harsh reality of things... for now. I took another risk, and lost again. Nope, I gotta convince myself that it’s his loss, not mine. No more use crying over spilt milk. After all, I could always spill my own milk... by myself.

Post-script:
As of Saturday afternoon, he sent me a text message asking how I was and if what I had confessed was true. I just said it would be such a bad joke to tell. He admitted doubting its truth, and I ended up lecturing him about the fact that you can’t tell one’s HIV-status based on looks alone. Nothing again after that. Sigh.