Our sorted lives

For months, I flirted with Adam, another guy-crazy comrade at the gym. We shot each other winky-faces from bench presses or treadmills. Always sweaty and energized, it made sense to jump in each other’s mesh shorts. But we barely said a word to each other.

It took months for Adam and me to finally wrap up our workouts and hit the exit at the same time. After clumsy parking lot introductions, we figured out who lived closer so we could get our heart rates back up again – sans the shorts.

“Just real quick,” I said casually, “I just want to let you know that I am HIV positive.” Now a semi-pro in the league of disclosure, I continued, “For me it doesn’t interfere with safe sex. I am on medications and am healthy and have no problems.”

“Oh,” he let out a sigh. Instead of the usual look of initial shock and gradual acceptance, his face remained filled with disappointment. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you are safe and fine, but that is just a chance I can’t take. I mean… my job… and my parents… and my…” he stuttered out the excuses.

Adam turned me down as gently as he could. I knew he meant no harm. I also knew that I had just been serosorted; that term is for the act of sorting out guys by their HIV status. It had happened to me often online, but never to my face.

As we were now to bid farewell, I had mere seconds to make some kind of impact. “You know, you have already had sex with someone who has HIV,” I blurted out.

“What do you mean?” he asked as if I was cluing him in to gossip about him.

“I mean that you are obviously a sexually-active guy and that’s awesome,” I said. “But do you really think every guy you have ever fooled around with has been HIV negative?”

I could see him flipping through his mental sexual rolodex.

“Think about it,” I said, “you were about to leave here with me. I could have just as easily never said anything, knowing how safe I am. Or I might have not known my status at all – that’s nothing unusual. So you don’t think that could have ever happened to you?”

“Huh,” he laughed to himself, evidently brushing it off. “Well, thank you for being honest anyway. I’ll see ya’ around the gym sometime.”

I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Nevertheless, what I told Adam is true for many of us. Serosorting for sex or dating is nothing new – but it’s not logical, either. Purposefully sorting out those who are honest about their status only leaves more contact with those who don’t know about their status at all. Whether the serosorters accept it or not, they’ve probably already tangoed with the big H – and probably more than once.

I still saw Adam at the gym, occasionally. We we didn’t wink anymore, instead just nodding like passing cowboys. Eventually the day came along where the awkward avoidance came face-to-face.

“I just wanted to apologize for a few months ago,” he said. “I acted like a total douchebag.” I accepted his apology. “So do you think maybe I could get a second chance on playing around?”

Being sorted out because of my HIV status had been a huge turn-off. But the man standing in front of me seemed nothing of douche, nor bag. A man learning new approaches – that’s the sexiest man of all.