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Prosies - walk of shame
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May 31, 2002 It hit me while I was filling out the form that, because of the mess that happened last May, I probably shouldn't be giving blood. But I decided to go ahead anyway. They wrote down the medication I take and why I take it—not something I want coworkers to know about—and then, on an entirely different screening question, they sniffed me out. Since 1975, have you had sex with a man who's had sex with another man? Fucking homophobes—biphobes. They say it's for legal purposes because of the AIDS epidemic. But when I was with Fabulous, I always used condoms. It wasn't Fabulous that put me at risk. I was me. On that stupid beach. When I thought I was going to leave Quick. When the devil on my shoulder spoke louder than the angel. The angel said danger danger, but the devil said it's okay, you are free. You are a free woman. Nothing will happen. And I had to leave that damn bloodmobile with my injured pride and my back straight as a rail. The walk of shame without the bandage on the arm. I called the Fenway and made my appointment for anonymous testing. I am terried and ashamed. I hate having to say "both," when they ask if I have had sexual contact with men, or women, or both. Part of it is shame over who and what I am—but mostly it is shame over what I have done. Over who I have betrayed. "Will you ever forgive me?" I asked her the other day. "I already have," she replied.
But what I should have asked is, "will you ever trust me again?" How can she?
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