So our friend Sitting Bull, much like Denise Richards, had an HIV test this week. Denise Richards got hers because she found out her husband was rampantly cheating on her with prostitutes. Sitting Bull got his because he is a bath house troll (when he’s not fucking, he can be found living under a bridge with Cynthia Nixon’s girlfriend).
We tease. Sitting Bull is a demure and well-behaved lady with a lovely and devoted husband. He was just doing his gay duty and getting tested regularly. It’s nice for him that he has a boyfriend who can handle the testicular exams for him. We have to do it ourselves – in the shower.
Anyway, Sitting Bull reminded us today of a universal phenomenon: there comes a time when as gays, we all become Bill Frist.
In the moments before receiving the results of an HIV test we go from being confident, healthy, fun-loving queers to nervous nellies who honestly wonder whether we caught it while wiping off the elliptical at Crunch, or even sitting next to that hysterically crying queer during “Brokeback Mountain” at Chelsea Clearview. All those incredibly awkward moments we spent in the bedroom asking “I don’t have a condom, don’t YOU have a condom?” suddenly seem fruitless. The blundering silences as we waited, grundle humiliatingly exposed, as the top fumbled with the wrapper? Wasted. The annoyingly long period when we insisted upon safe sex with our boyfriend until we could check his dental records to prove he wasn’t crystal whore? Might as well have barebacked on the first date.
Why does this test, which should be an affirmation of health, play upon our deepest guilt? Do we really think, deep down, that we’re all sluts?
Since this post has turned into a column from “Sex and the City,” We will end it fittingly. By going and fucking Jason Lewis.
With a condom.