"They high-five yet again and say “We’re clean! We’re clean!” I tilt my head the way a dog does when you read it comics and say: “What am I? Dirty?”"

If you are from LA you will no doubt know Wednesdays suck.They just do. There’s kind of nothing to do. (Go ahead and argue, it just makes you look needy.) I am not one of those people who need to be entertained. I pretty much bring the party. If you give me a couple of hot men, good music and tequila, we’ll figure something out. I am fairly adaptable and easy to please. Anyone who has had sex with me can vouch for this ability.

Being an Eastsider who is over Wednesdays, I convinced my crew, buddies, faggle, entourage, dare I say: friends, to go West and see what’s hot in Weho. I mean it couldn’t be worse than talk shows at the Faultline, right? Now before you’re terrified that this is going to turn into one of those “out and about who’s seen at which scene”, remember it’s me. And I don’t know/care who anybody is who’s not putting out to me specifically. (eg: That lady with the blonde hair who makes over salons or something, was at Here and the gays were a-drooling. Really? Really? Yes, really.)

This is not that kind of article.

I know I know you’re champing at the bit right? Ok I’ll just skip all the lame attempts at making fun of everything everywhere--including, but not limited to, my friend Gordon flailing his arms in the air and saying “Can’t, can’t do it … Weho kills me” and running to an open cab. (No really. He did.) This is the kind of article that stops you in the middle of your life and asks you what the hell is in your brain. Let me explain.

Down Santa Monica Boulevard we wander, not yet staggering, and viola! We hit the 20 minute HIV testing truck (I’m sure it has a cute name like the AIDS-mobile or HIVehicle or Car-So-la-Fierce). It’s a wonderful little RV type of thing where you get swabbed and told your future by a non-psychic. My friends look at me like, “Should we?” I say, “Hey, it’s better to know we’re here, it’s here, Jesus loves you, and if it turns out positive, there’s plenty of liquor around and Uncle David will buy.” Chris and Yolanda enter said truck, terrified.

The nurse-esque lady asks me if I wish to be tested as well. I quip, “I already got some, thanks!” Chris rolls his eyes with a “give the nice lady a break, David” look. Then I am told I am not allowed inside. It was my idea and now I have to stand outside for 20 minutes? I re-quip, “Are you afraid I’ll contaminate the truck?” The nice lady’s mouth drops and now Yolanda gives me that look. Knowing my penchant for bitchiness. I cover quickly, “I’m kidding I’m kidding. This is so fierce of you guys!!! Woo-Hoo!!!” They know I’ve overdone it a bit. “A” for effort. That’s my motto, whether I want it or not (once again, ask anyone I’ve ever slept with).

I stand outside with the kid at the desk giving out condoms and we make small chat for a second. 2 twinks walk by and see the truck, see me and giggle into each other in that oh-so annoying way twinks giggle and one says, ”Good Luck! Giggle giggle giggle giggle.” I am torn between saying, “Goodness has nothing to do with it.”, “Only if the luck starts with an f” and “Go fuck yourself twink.” when they have passed me and I look stupid and kind of guilty.

Guilty? Do I feel guilty about being positive? Sometimes. Like I dropped the torch of healthy-decisions that was limp-wristingly passed my way by dozens of my friends who died. I was supposed to have learned. I stand on Santa Monica Boulevard and hear James wheeze, “Be smart David. Don’t you dare let this happen to you.” And I did. I was supposed to be the generation of gay that was never silent, that would not be defeated, and would make loving healthy choices in the wake of tragedy. I would be super-human and never err, EVER!

I tell that voice to hush. Like I’ve done hundreds of times before. That voice offers no help or solace and I’ve learned to quiet it. Fuck. 20 minutes is forever! Maybe it was because I went to the dark place. Maybe it was because of the memories. Maybe it was because of the tequila shot before this “fabulous” idea. Whatever the reason, my selfishness that night has taught me a thing or two about myself. I’m not terribly proud or ashamed. I just never thought I was such a selfish, fucking asshole.

My friends come flying out of the disease-on-wheels, beaming. They’re negative. They jump up and down. Chris has a tear in his eye. We all hugged. We high-five then high-five again, Top Gun style. Beaming. They are beaming! And I just hated them.

In my head I was like, “STOP.” But all aboard, the bitter train whistle blew and Uncle David was late for first class. I am so jealous it is almost physically impossible not to glare. Only years of acting class, ballet and bartending get me through the first 2 minutes. They didn’t know. I couldn’t tell them. This was their moment. Their freedom from a fear they had been carrying around. They were beaming! And I wanted to hit something so hard, my knuckles broke.

Note: This is not to say I wasn’t truly happy for them. And this is not say that I wouldn’t have wept had the results been different. This is not to say I don’t pray no one ever tests positive again. And this is not to say I don’t think my friends are amazing and courageous. This IS to say that I was overwhelmed like I tested positive all over again.

They high-five yet again and say “We’re clean! We’re clean!” I tilt my head the way a dog does when you read it comics and say: “What am I? Dirty?”

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit I said it didn’t I? It actually came out of my stupid mouth! Uhg David! David! David! No! bad! reverse time!!

Margarita-ing, we cheer to health and friendship. And I am dirty. Cling clang go the glasses and ice! I keep thinking: I am dirty. Once again, ask anyone I have ever slept with. I usually pride myself on being dirty. Hell, read anything I have ever written. I cross the smut/art line like a hooker having found Jesus on the last night of the month. I feel contaminated. Like Chernobyl contaminated. Like AIDS death camp in Saskatchewan contaminated. Didn’t I already do this? Didn’t I go to therapy and process all this shit? The sides of my mouth reach towards my ears but oddly, I’m not smiling.

I can’t hush the overwhelming voice this time and I’m not in a safe place to challenge it. So I do the oddest thing. I say, “OK you’re right. If you really want to perceive this as being dirty, I won’t stop you.” I wait for the flood of shame. I wait to push back tears and smile. I wait to cry myself to sleep. It doesn’t come. In fact, a sense of peace knocks at the door. It’s as if all the guilt and shame I have been fighting over unrealistic backdrops, inane responsibilities and ridiculous self-imaging that would crush Gandhi, simply ebbed.

I can hear the PC comments on how un-empowering the word “dirty” is. How dare I! We are glorious! Yea yea yeah, I know. So please do not take this as advice.

This is not that kind of article.

But in that moment of acceptance of the thing, I felt a sense of freedom. Of ownership. The dirt of the lotus flower. (Oh no he got all Tina.) To be honest, I’m not sure that was the right decision. But, to be honest, my smile became true and I ended up being really happy for my clean “peeps”. I sort of sat back on the cushions, sucked on a lime, and thought “hell yeah, David’s a dirty boy!”

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