Unleashing the Er

Er. Er, as in er.

Er. It’s a Filipino gay term which sort of refers to people, usually men in particular, who engage in manual labor. The construction worker, the carpenter, the janiter, the garbage collecter, the plumber, the driver and so many others. As you notice, all very manly professions. That is the er.

Lately, I’ve been struck by the urge to be er.

I’ve always been a pretty handy and resourceful guy. I remember when I was younger, I used to fix my little cousins’ toys armed with just a screwdriver and a bottle of white glue. And I was pretty good at it.

Eventually, I graduated to more manly stuff, being able to put those assembly-required pieces of furniture together very easily. At some point, I would laugh impishly at the fact that I was manlier than my straight brother in that aspect.

And today, I have a pretty adequate set of tools. In an actual tool kit. Not even one of those tool kits with nail polish and make-up inside, okay? I have screw drivers, pliers, chisels, a saw, a tape measure, brackets and screws, electrical wires, screws, nails and washers, hinges and latches, a pair of those Gryptonite wrenches they sell on TV, and even an electrical drill, a soldering iron and a jig saw. Nay, bading ba talaga ako?

I’m not sure if my science and engineering background helped at all, but I am self-learned in basic electricals, plumbing, carpentry, painting, and other atypically gay stuff. Very, very er.

For my latest project, I wanted to install an exhaust fan in my room, supposedly in time for the hot summer days. I had it all planned out. I had measured an upper window and bought an exhaust fan that could fit in it. All I needed to do was remove a part of the glass pane to make way for it.

In my imagination, I knew what I needed to do. But of course, things don’t always go according to plan. I first wired an electrical outlet and a switch to power the exhaust fan. I had bought myself a diamond-tipped glass-cutter at the local hardware, but was really unsure of how easy it was going to be. Cutting glass was not something I had done before. But I was hell-bent on trying.

I knew how dangerous glass could be, and I wasn’t planning on ending up with any open wounds that could get infected and stuff. So I took as much caution as I could. I had scored part of the glass pane to get it ready to break easily. A couple of taps with a hammer, nothing. I whipped out my chisel, and whacked it with that and the hammer. I heard a crack. Supposedly good, but... I ended up breaking the whole pane of glass instead. Oh, well.

Not to be beaten, I slowly removed every bit of glass from the window, including the wood molding that held it in place. With that out of the way, I installed the exhaust fan and just covered the exposed part of the window with a piece of plywood. Looking at it working now makes me think, pwede na.

It was a tough job, but someone had to do er.

Now almost a month later, the only thing left is for the wound I sustained to heal completely. Believe me when I say it was pretty bad, as I witnessed it go through a spectrum of Christmas colors, from blood red to pus green. Eeew.

So what caused it? Was it a shard of glass? No. Was in a splinter of wood? I wish. It was... gasp... a paper cut. Sigh.

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Sex After HIV

How time flies. I’ve been officially HIV positive for the past nine months now. It’s still quite overwhelming how so many people are interested in how it is to be living with HIV. Overwhelming, but reassuring. I usually get asked questions like How are you coping?, What were your symptoms?, Why did you get tested?, Where did you get it?, and so on, and so forth. But so far, the most intriguing question for most seems to be How is your sex life now?

So once and for all, let’s tackle that question. So how is my sex life now? My usual answer, which is the most concise and honest I can give, is Surprisingly, not zero. I know! Gasps all around, right? But that’s the truth.

When I found out I was HIV positive back in April, I was still certainly having sex for the next couple of weeks. Let’s just say I needed to fulfill my prior commitments. But certainly, everything was kept safe.

I did eventually need to get out of meeting those guys who had gotten used to having unprotected sex with me. My alibis included reasons like I wasn’t feeling well, I needed to be home early, I needed to work overtime, or at some point even claiming to be seeing someone exclusively. Yes, that many different alibis, and more.

Meeting new guys was kept to a minimum, mostly because I was still dealing with the HIV thing internally. For the new guys I’d meet, one requirement would be that they adhered strictly to having safe sex. That way, I didn’t need to convince them once we met. I never liked using condoms, so for the first time in history, I knew I was keeping the condom industry alive.

I had mellowed down so much that, upon finding out that a poz friend of mine was part of an orgy one night, I became so disappointed that I went out looking for some action of my own that same night. It was an If-you-can-do-it-so-can-I thing. I know, I was acting like I was such an angel when I really wasn’t. But it was just an outburst of emotion at the time.

Since that time, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can still have sex. My libido is still alive. I actually think it’s gotten worse, and I’m not sure if it’s just a side effect of the ARVs. In truth, since finding out I had HIV, I’ve already managed to have sex with 20 different guys. What?! Twenty?! Sound like a lot? Not really, compared to the almost 100 different guys I had sex with during the same period a year before. That should put things into perspective.

Of those 20 different guys, only one of them knew I was HIV positive before we had sex. Deny as we all may, the stigma attached to HIV is still there, which makes it such a mood killer. And I was able to tell that one person, only because he was also HIV positive. And just to make things clear, NO, IT WAS NOT E!

And one more admission, I’ve had bareback sex with one of those 20 guys. What?! Unprotected sex?! Gasps again. Fortunately, it was with that one poz guy as well. I know, I know, poz on poz action is still not safe when done unprotected. But we both knew that. And we still did it, and had no regrets. Not even when we did it a second time. C’mon, give us a break! Anyway, I think we agreed that we’d use protection next time. Still can’t wait!

Okay, one last confession, I think I've completely lost the New Virginity of it all. I sort of started the year out with a bang. A gang bang. Four versus one, just after New Year. What?! OMG! It was at that time that I was reminded that I treat sex as my form of addiction. The vice I run to when I get depressed. And if you recall, New Years Day did leave me down in the dumps. So I drowned my sorrows away with sex. I know it’s not an excuse. But rest assured, it was surely, purely safe.

So there. That’s what my sex life has been like since finding out I was HIV positive. Relatively decent, but still far from being dead. I know some of you are still picking your jaws up off the floor. But hey, go ahead, cast your stones. It wouldn’t be the Human Immunodeficiency Virus if I wasn’t human. And that’s exactly what I am. Just human.

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Ol' Friend

It was January 5th, the first working day after the long holiday break. The day started out slow, as did the week, and though I did get some work done, I admit my mind was still in vacation mode.

The day went by faster than expected, and nothing unusual really happened. At least not until the last few minutes of my work day. Something just left me speechless, and in a daze.

It was my fault really, I just had to check my personal e-mail account before heading home. I found some of my usual friend requests from a personals site, but like a sore thumb, one message stood out. It was an alert that I had a message waiting at another personals site. I hadn’t been very active there lately, so I really wasn’t getting or expecting any messages at all. And curiously, and foolishly, I clicked.

Just three words. Three simple words that threw my world out of orbit. I’m single now. I remember saying to myself, Oh fuck.

It came from, let’s just say, an Ol' Friend. I met my Ol' Friend back in 2007, just after I broke up with my last boyfriend. As usual, we fucked on the first date. It was a no strings attached thing, but we ended up enjoying each other’s company, both in and out of bed. What was supposed to be a fuck and run, ended up with me hanging out at his place for the morning and reporting for work at lunch time. We clicked so much that we ended up hanging out a lot after that. I’d hang out at this Ole Friend’s place, we’d have drinks together, I’d sleep over, we’d fuck a lot, and talk about every thing under the sun for hours and hours at a time. Did I mention we fucked a lot?

We were good together. The one catch, my Ol' Friend was courting someone. It wasn’t really a problem for me, because I’d just gotten out of a relationship, and actually chose to give myself some time to stay single. And I knew I was comfortable with the set-up because I was totally okay with talking about his special someone. But not for long.

Months of being together-but-not-together passed by, and I realized I was falling for my Ol' Friend. After hearing how his special someone would treat him, I knew I could do better. But it was not to be. My Ole Friend chose to be mistress to his someone, who incidentally was mistress to someone else, than to have me all to himself. But I wasn’t planning on being a tertiary level mistress in one hell of an entangled love web. So I said, we’d be nothing more than friends.

I knew I’d fallen for him, because it hurt like hell. But I didn’t let it show. I sucked it up and kept on going. Believe me, my theme song was Kung Ako Na Lang Sana. We would still hang out together, and do everything else we used to do. But I made sure sex was a no-no. I never even knew I had that much pride in me. We’d sleep together, but nothing more. Just sleep sleep. On some nights, he’d try to make a move, but I would always say no. Gosh, it’s fucking hard to say no.

Like I said, we carried on. He just liked me sooo much. When he was lonely, all he needed to do was lay a guilt trip on me, and I’d be there in a flash. I was a stand-in, when his boyfriend wasn’t around. When they’d be fighting, I’d be there to lean on. When he’d want to go clubbing in Malate, I’d be his designated buddy. And mind you, Malate is NOT my kind of place. Hell, I became such a pushover that I even cleaned up when he puked all over his place after a long night of drinking. And even if he got mad and almost drove me out of his place from embarrassment after that, I didn’t mind. Think doormat. Think panakip-butas.

I was unappreciated, and he knew it. That was apparent when he told me I deserved more love from him than what his boyfriend was getting. But he made clear he couldn’t give it to me. That sucked. But more than that, it hurt and it made me cry. A classic case of consuelo de bobo.

I don’t remember how exactly it ended, but I think I missed sleeping in my own bed and being alone so much, and probably had enough of the partying and the drinking, that decided to fade away. I needed to take care of myself again.

I think I last saw this Ol' Friend in December of 2007, long before my plight with HIV began. He doesn’t know how much I’ve been through since that time. The only thing he’s heard from my side is an anonymous text message telling him to get tested for HIV. Yes, he’s one of the lucky ones who got it. I don’t know exactly what he did with it, but he should’ve gotten it.

For the past couple of months though, this Ol' Friend has been trying to make contact. Via e-mail and my guys4men account, and even through friendster. All I’ve been doing is deleting his messages. Apparently he’d lost my mobile number, which is fortunate for the hiding game I’ve been playing.

Up until that fateful day when I read those three words, I’m single now. And all I’m thinking is It’s too late. Things have changed. I’ve changed. Why me? Why now?

It took me the whole week to have the guts to face those three words again. The only reply I could manage was I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Consider it as half being concerned, half acting unassuming and half confining it to small talk. See, even my math is fucked up.

I know I’m miles away from telling him about my HIV, but I did the least possible for old times’ sake. Let’s just say I didn’t have a choice, and couldn’t act like I didn’t care. Maybe he deserves an explanation? Maybe he doesn’t? Maybe I deserve an explanation? Maybe I don't? Who knows? I don’t know how this chapter is going to unravel.

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H4 Galore

Another big Thursday for me. I left around 7 am, but not before talking with K over the phone. He just called to send me off on what he thinks is another regular work day for me. Little did he know.

So I made it to the HIV ward of the San Lazaro Hospital a little past 8 am, had myself registered, and my vital signs taken. H4-2008-054. Weight is still the same, blood pressure normal, temperature was a bit high, I’m thinking because I had barely taken a breather before they sat me down to take it. But I was feeling fine.

I noticed some of those metal medical clipboards on the counter, probably records of those confined. I noticed that the patient codes were written on the top of the clipboards, one of which I read as H4-2008-059. I realized, geesh, at least five other people have already been diagnosed after me. And whoever this is, his condition has called for him to be confined. I’m pretty lucky then.

I walked into the waiting room, and sat down. There were three other guys already there. One of them I recognized to be the guy trying to smile at me when I was there two weeks ago. A bit surprising, since he has been checked-up at least twice this month already. He recognized me, smiled and went back to reading his newspaper. The four of us continued waiting since the doctors hadn’t arrived yet.

After a while, Y walked in and started chatting up with all of us there, who he knew apparently. It was nice to see a familiar face. He still treated me as the new kid, which was nice.

I heard voices from the reception counter, later on realizing it was the other doctor. She called for me, and instructed the nurse to hand me my referral slip for the CD4 count. I was pointed to the direction of the SACCL, short for STD/AIDS Central Cooperative Laboratory. Their name was also on my diagnostic results which I got last April. Apparently this is where most of the STD related tests are done, such as Hepatitis, HIV, Venereal Disease, etc.

But before going, I noticed the guy getting his vital signs taken, looking at me. He was cute. He seemed like an older guy, smaller, fair, manly, a bit stocky, dignified, and a bit shy. My type. I don’t know what his name is, but he was looking at me, and I was looking back. I still wasn’t hell bent at using the ward as a cruising place so I picked up my heels and just headed to the SACCL.

Walking to the next building, 8 or 9 people were waiting before me. I had to spill over to the waiting area outside the building where one other guy was. He asked me what I was there for, explaining he was there for a medical test for Hepatitis required for his application to the Philippine National Police. I don’t remember what I answered but I’m sure I couldn’t have been vaguer. Hahaha.

When it was the turn of the guy in front of me, I could hear from the voices in the lab that something was wrong. The guy first walked out with a cotton ball taped to his left arm. Going back in, he later walked out with another cotton ball on his right arm. Still they weren’t done. I don’t know where the hell else they took his blood, but this was scaring me quite a bit already!

Then my turn came. Oddly enough, they asked me to write my real name on the referral form, contrary to what I believed was a confidentiality law for HIV infected persons. If I were a fraction of sensitive and defensive, I would’ve put up a fight. But I wasn’t, so I penned my name away.

Then I saw the needle. It was bigger than my usual and it hurt going in. Then I felt the lady pushing and pulling and wiggling it around in there. My blood wasn’t flowing?! It was a problem with some adaptor they were using. It was hurting like hell! I’m still squirming right now recalling the pain. Then she just said sorry and pulled it out. Next arm. She had left me with a big red pock on my left arm, and had no blood to show for it. Thankfully she got it on the second try. I’ll need my phobia to heal again after this.

So anyways, I headed back to the ward, half wishing I’d catch “the guy” still there. I went in to see my doctor in the doctors’ office for less than 3 minutes, faced another one of her pity-faced are-you-sure-you’re-okays, and headed out. I didn’t see him there. I wasn’t sure, but good thing I waited because he had been talking with the other doctor the same time I was inside. So anyways, I saw him again, we exchanged nods a bit, but never talked. Y felt the need to keep me company, so I didn’t get the chance to work the guy over. I hope I bump into him there again sometime.

I’m beginning to look forward to San Lazaro. I’ll be back at the ward next Thursday, mostly to discuss my CD4 results with the doctor, but partly hoping to meet more pozzies as well. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll see “him” there again. Man, I’m a slut!

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