November 30th 2024.
I was in a trade union meeting, surrounded by grey walls and a dull PowerPoint presentation. The sound of rain splattering against the window was making me drowsy, and I was about to doze off when Thierry walked in.
Instantly, my attention was captured by his striking features - turquoise eyes, a strong jawline, and the softest lips. His Parisian accent floated across the room as he shared his experiences of fighting for LGBTQ+, HIV+, anti-racism, and sex-workers rights in Paris and Hackney. I was completely mesmerized.
But amidst my admiration for Thierry, I couldn't help but focus on two things. One, I wanted to get his number. And two, I wondered if I could open up to him about the secret that had been eating me up inside - and how he would react.
Five years prior, I had experienced a sudden rash that spread all over my body. It turned out to be an indicator of HIV. At the time, I had mistaken it for a bad case of the flu. But my housemate knew better and rushed me to the doctor for blood tests. The results came back positive for HIV.
Unfortunately, I had never learned about HIV in school due to the Section 28 law. I had no idea how to take care of myself as a queer person, and I had never even heard of the signs and symptoms of HIV. My only frame of reference was from the AIDS tombstone advertisements or the storyline on EastEnders.
My diagnosis felt like a bombshell. I was devastated, lonely, and depressed. Attempting to date, I faced ignorant comments and eventually gave up. I felt like I had to lock away my heart and accept the harsh reality of living with HIV.
But then I met Thierry. I couldn't believe that someone as gorgeous as him would be interested in me. After the meeting, he even gave me his number with a smile.
For days, I debated whether or not to message him. Could something really happen between us? Eventually, I mustered up the courage and sent him a text. To my surprise, he invited me over to his flat.
On a stormy evening in October 2007, I nervously made my way to his flat, rehearsing a speech in my head. I knew I had to tell him about my HIV status, but I was afraid of his reaction.
When he opened the door, he was only wearing boxer shorts - not exactly making it easy for me. I stuttered out my confession, expecting rejection. But instead, he was understanding.
"Don't be patronizing," he said. "Do you really think you're the first person with HIV I know?" His reaction was a weight lifted off my shoulders, and I knew that there was something special between us.
I had been sitting in a boring trade union meeting, struggling to stay awake amidst the dull PowerPoint presentation and the sound of rain hitting the window. That's when Thierry walked in. With his striking turquoise eyes, defined jawline, and soft lips, it was impossible to deny that he was incredibly attractive. And when he spoke, his gentle Parisian accent captured the attention of everyone in the room, including myself.
As Thierry shared his experiences of fighting for LGBTQ+, HIV+, anti-racism, and sex workers' rights, I couldn't help but feel captivated by him. But amidst my admiration for his work, I found myself focused on two things: getting his number and revealing a secret that had been eating away at me.
Five years ago, in 2005, a sudden rash had spread all over my body. I was covered from head to toe in red blotches and spots. At the time, I thought it was just a bad case of the flu. But my housemate recognized it as a sign of HIV and rushed me to the doctor. It turned out that I was "seroconverting," meaning my body was producing antibodies in response to the virus.
Growing up under the Section 28 law, I had never been educated about HIV in school. So I had no idea about the signs or how to protect myself as a queer person. My only knowledge of HIV came from the "Don't Die of Ignorance" tombstone adverts and storylines on shows like EastEnders. Needless to say, my diagnosis came as a shock and left me feeling devastated, lonely, and depressed.
As I attempted to date, I faced ignorant comments and discrimination. I felt like I had to lock my heart away and accept that my life would never be the same. But then I met Thierry.
I was surprised when he gave me his number after the trade union meeting, as I thought he was out of my league. For days, I debated whether or not to message him. But eventually, I mustered up the courage and invited myself over to his flat.
On that stormy evening in October 2007, I arrived at Thierry's flat, nervously rehearsing what I wanted to say. I knew I had to tell him about my HIV status, but I was afraid of his reaction. And when he opened the door wearing only boxer shorts, I knew this was going to be even harder than I thought.
With shaky hands, I managed to blurt out the truth: "I'm HIV positive." There was a long pause, and I prepared myself for rejection. But instead, Thierry surprised me by saying, "Don't be so patronising. Do you really think you're the first person with HIV I know?" And just like that, a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
Thierry didn't judge me or treat me any differently because of my status. He saw beyond it and accepted me for who I was. And from that moment on, our relationship only grew stronger. We continued to fight for causes we believed in together, and with his support, I learned to embrace my HIV status and not let it define me. I will forever be grateful to Thierry for opening my heart and showing me that love knows no boundaries.
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