Fuck The Pope But Use A Condom (Pt. 2)
Fellatio in the Bathroom Stall … Shame and Sympathy … The Disease That Must Not Be Named.A few months earlier, because I’m a refined sort of chap—and because she was so fucking hot—I treated a date to a concert at the City Hall.
We arrived early, and so had enough time for a glass of wine in the foyer. We also, well, rather, I—at her prompting—purchased one of those glossy booklets they have at these things. It was titled Symphonic Spring: Rademeyer Plays Liszt.
Rademeyer, we soon learned, was the surname of the soloist, Daniel Rademeyer: a young, up-and-coming pianist who had won multiple major international competitions and was now making his professional debut with the Cape Town Philharmonic Orchestra.
Next to his description was a picture: a twenty-something chap with light-brown hair, crystalline blue eyes, high, elegant cheeks, and skin as pure as snow.
We were still examining these features when, lo and behold, the man appeared in the flesh! Came strolling past us in a black tux—the crowd parting for him as if he were Moses—smiling and waving, shaking hands, all in a manner which suggested he thought he was the star of a high-budget cologne advert.
It was sickening.
My date, on the other hand, seemed to be falling for all of this Dorian Gray shit, because, when he left the room, she turned to me and said, “Oh, wow, he’s like ... flawless.”
Some hag next to us chipped in, “Isn’t he? And so good. Such a friendly, well-mannered child. Wouldn’t harm a fly. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”
“Humph,” was all I could say. I knew all too well what friendly, well-mannered boys were capable of. And my cynicism would bear out, because immediately thereafter I headed to the restroom for a piddle and, upon entering, found this friendly, well-mannered boy in a position so weird, so unexpected, that a stream of drool threatened to plummet from my mouth. I mean, there he was, in a cubicle—with the door as wide open as a teenager’s heart—fondling his testicles while straining to fellate himself! Yes, fellate himself!
An arresting image, I think you would agree.
I didn’t stop and buy popcorn—I was merely passing on my way to the urinals—but my bulging eyes were glued to the scene for just long enough to see him jolt and cover up. By the time I reached the urinals and was settling into a perplexed stance, I heard him leave the cubicle and, rather surprisingly, but to his credit, first stop at the basin to wash his filthy paws before concluding his departure. My mind was racing: why didn’t he just suck himself off in his green room? Why was he even on that side of the building to begin with? Why wasn’t he warming up or something?
Initially, I thought that he might be some sort of an exhibitionist, but then I recalled that exhibitionists actually want to be seen, that the thought of some unsuspecting stranger goggling at their goods is the fountainhead of their zeal, and that this Rademeyer had been more redolent of Biblical Adam—shy, ashamed, and in the market for fig leaves—than one of those sixty-something European chaps who traumatize children on the beach.
I kept chewing the thing over and, by the time I got back to my date, had come up with a more plausible hypothesis, which, to keep her mind on more appetizing subjects, I chose not to divulge. Instead, I pushed the blowjob narrative, which she found a hoot. In fact, I would go so far as to say it helped me to procure some of the good stuff later that evening—you know, by sort of planting the idea in her head. In any case, this is not of the essence. What’s of the essence here is that this new hypothesis of mine was far more plausible than the one in which this pianist was straining, at a most inopportune time and place—in a tux, no less—to fellate himself.
And this hypothesis only grew in plausibility about half an hour later, when he sat down to perform Liszt’s Piano Concerto No. 1. Sweating like Dick Nixon, he looked tight and nervous, a mere shadow of the confident, carefree figure that had strolled through the foyer. And despite hammering through the concerto’s ferocious opening section agreeably, he consummately butchered the serene lines that were supposed to follow.
This in itself raised the eyebrow—the guy was supposedly a champ, after all—but it was his response to this blunder that really made one sit up and take notice. Instead of taking the prescribed deep breath and getting back on the horse, as it were, he snapped and, as one might expect from a man flung out of a rollercoaster, emitted a long, drawn-out, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!”
I don’t know much about classical music and its historical happenings, but I suspect this was a highly unusual, possibly even singular event. To his credit, he got a grip on himself and finished well, but for someone supposedly as competent as he was, this initial breakdown was telling.
I was so inspired by these events, I told my date I’d hunt him down and coax him into spilling the beans. I even got so far as to come up with a viable plan of action: introduce myself as a kind, sympathetic Oxford-educated psychologist,1 and under this guise break the awkward news of our restroom encounter, hoping that the nature of my profession would make it easier for him to open up to me. It was all very exciting. But then the next day rolled around and, having had two very satisfying bites of the sexual carrot the previous evening, I no longer felt the drive. You know how it goes: you get laid, you get lazy.
So, I let the whole thing go, completely forgot about it—that is, until this Friday evening when, in a state of near-criminal ambition, I swiveled round and saw this very same Daniel awash in candlelight behind Crazy Joe’s baby grand.
As I mentioned earlier, his appearance had a most marked effect on my mood. Perked me right up. Lady Fortuna sure knows how to slap you around, but she’s also wise enough to rub your cheek from time to time and say “Come, come now” to keep you in the game. What electrified me even more was the fact that the said lady had clearly slapped him around a bit as well. Gone was the polished, elegant fellow who had floated through the City Hall. In his place, there now sat only a kind of scruffy bum: hair a mess, beard unshaved, and body stuffed into a shirt so crinkled it looked as if it had spent the previous night in a heap on the floor.
He also had this dark, somber, Sunday-afternoon air about him, which, although perfectly in line with it, could not have been simply a quality of his performance, because it was still there when, two gloomy pieces later, he downed what was left of his drink and made his way over to the only other patrons at the bar: a mid-to-late-twenties couple a few stools to my right.
I hadn’t given the two much thought until now, but now that I studied them more closely, I got the distinct sense that I knew the fellow from somewhere. He was a big, neat, together-looking chap—of the benign, whole-grain sort that parents of wayward daughters are only too glad to see dragged through the front door. Not my sort, then, and yet we must’ve mingled at some point. His darling, on the other hand, was very much my kind of company: a fun-sized blonde with the toned, sun-kissed physique of a feisty little tennis player. Sadly, she didn’t evoke any sense of familiarity.
The chap stood up and, smiling warmly, shook hands with Daniel.
“Well played, bud,” he said. “I really enjoyed that.”
“Thanks, Pierre,” said Daniel, placing his empty glass on the counter. “Another one, please, Charles.”
The bartender reached overhead.
“Yeah,” started the woman tepidly, as if restraining a more honest impulse, “it was nice—”
“But?” interjected Daniel.
Her response was blunt. “It was depressing. I’m not surprised they no longer want you here.”
Daniel shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“Children rarely do,” she said, and hopped off her stool. “We’re meeting friends across the road. Do you want to join?”
Daniel accepted his replenished whisky. Turning to the woman, he raised his glass aloft and said, “I think I’m good here.”
“Of course you are,” she said, eyeing him narrowly. Then turned to Pierre. “I’m quickly going to the bathroom and then we must go.”
Smiling nervously, he nodded and watched her brisk off, then got up and joined Daniel by the counter. Like the former, he propped himself up on an elbow and turned to gaze at the piano in the distance. Reeking of an agenda, he said, “So, how have you been, bud?”
“Okay,” said the other listlessly.
This seemed to deflate the big man a bit. “I see, I see.” He turned his gaze to the floor. Having frowned at it for a while, he said, “And, eh, have you heard from Layla again?”
Daniel’s glass halted just short of his lips. Eventually, through what may or may not have been gritted teeth, he said, “Nope.”
“Nothing?”
“Only saw her flatmate—earlier—while I was playing.”
“Her flatmate?”
“Some girl. Can’t remember her name.”
Pierre turned to him.
“Why don’t you just give her a call, bud? I know you think—”
Daniel swung around.
“I don’t just think, Pierre. I know, I know I’m not good enough for her.”
Pierre sighed and turned away. So did Daniel. Then the former said, “I think I’ve told you this before but, not long before I met your sister, I felt a bit ... I felt a bit as I think you do right now, and then—”
“Pierre, please don’t start with this again. I’ve told you already, I’m not interested. I already joined you—”
“You were hungover! You didn’t experience it properly. You need to give it time. Trust me. He can help you. He can save you. You need Him, Daniel. You’re in pain. You need something to hold on to, something to give yourself over to. I can see it. You don’t like to talk about it, but it’s clear. I’m worried about you, bud. Ella is worried about you. Please, think about it. I can help you—the Lord can help you.”
“Look,” said Daniel, showing all the signs of a cork that’s about to pop, “I know all of this is coming from a good place. I know you mean well—because you know how Ella would react to this—but, really, I’m not interested. And I’m fine. I’m not at my best, but I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Please, bud, let me help you. I really don’t mind if Ella finds out.”
“Keep talking, then, because she’s coming.”
Pierre spun around. The lassie was approaching indeed. What’s more, her face was flushed with anger. “Somebody puked in the bathroom,” she exclaimed. “It’s disgusting!”
Daniel smirked. “Well, at least you don’t have piss all over your floor.”
“How would you know?” She turned to Pierre. “Come, let’s go.”
As they gathered their things, Daniel said, “Let me know when you’re done. Maybe I’ll head back with you. I guess I have to entertain you two a bit, seeing as you came all this way to see me.”
“Pfft, listen to this one,” said the woman. “You can stay right here, little brother. We’ll get along just fine without you.”
Pierre gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “See you later, bud.”
“Yeah,” said Daniel, and drained the rest of his whisky. “Another one, please, Charles,” he said as they walked off.
“Sure, Daniel.”
Poor sod. He had no idea what was coming his way. As all of this was going on, I recalled the plan I alluded to earlier, of my assuming the role of an Oxford-educated psychologist to help win him over, and decided to shove it into action. As a seasoned actor who had assumed several significant roles back in high school, most notably that of Macbeth—to critical acclaim, I might add—this wangle was right up my alley.
Accordingly, it was with an easy, self-assured manner that Laurence Chalmers, BSc (Psych) hopped off his stool and, having switched on his phone’s voice recorder, moved in. Shifting in next to the lad, facing the bar, I said, “Evening, old boy. Sorry to disturb you like this. I’m just a little curious: what’s the surname of that big fellow you just spoke to? I’m convinced I know him from somewhere ... and yet, I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
He turned his head and, clearly in no mood for mysteries, said, “Le Roux.”
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “Le Roux, Le Roux ... No, I’m at a loss, but I’m sure it will come to me soon enough.”
His whisky arrived.
“Thanks, Charles.”
I waited for him to take a sip and then said, “So, you’re bidding this place goodbye then, eh?”
He turned his head and eyed me suspiciously. “How do you know?”
I chuckled.
“Well, that bird who was here just now said something to the effect. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, old boy, but her voice carries. Well-suited to shepherding.”
A puff of amused air escaped his nostrils. “True.”
I took a cool, long draught of my beer. Bullshitting makes you thirsty.
“By the way,” I said, “you were excellent tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“I especially liked that, what was it—the third-to-last piece you played?”
“Gershwin’s second prelude.”
“Yes, that’s the one! Just fantastic.” I took another stab at the beer and felt a surge of excitement. “That said, I think you have an even better feel for Liszt.”
I had expected animation, and animation was what I got. He started as if I had poked him with a bradawl.
“Liszt! When did you hear me play Liszt?”
“Ah, what, it must’ve been, what, last October? In the City Hall.”
He goggled at me.
“Are you kidding me? That was a fucking train wreck!”
“Oh, come now, it wasn’t that bad. Yes, you had the little blunder at the onset, but the recovery was quite admirable. That’s what matters. Don’t you recall what Rocky Balboa said? ‘It ain’t about how hard you’re hit. It’s about—’”
“Stop. Please, just stop.”
“Okay,” I said, shrugging. “I do not wish to aggravate you. In fact, old boy, I’m here to help you, to come to your aid. To do so, however, I must first break some news which, in the short run at least, might perturb you somewhat. Rest assured, however: in no time, you will breathe more easily than you have in months.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“Prior to that concert,” I said, feeling the rising anticipation of a chap who is about to detonate a bomb, “I found you in a … how shall I put this … in a somewhat … compromising position.”
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a deer get a whiff of gun oil, but essentially what happens is this: they freeze, their eyes grow wide with fear, and the tuft of grass which had been churning merrily in the corner of the mouth comes to a breathless halt. Daniel very nearly matched this description in the wake of my statement.
“What do you mean?” he said in a sort of faltering, gulping way.
“Well, let’s put it this way,” I said, calm as chamomile, “I could’ve entered the City Hall’s restroom at a somewhat less revealing moment.”
I just mentioned bombs. Well, after this last statement, it looked like one went off inside of our boy.
“It was you! You were the one who walked in on me!”
I nodded solemnly. “That’s correct, sir.”
“What exactly did you see?”
In an attempt to appear discreet, I first stole a glance at the bartender before answering, “I saw it all, bud. Everything. The whole shebang. In detail.”
He buried his face in his hands.
“But don’t be embarrassed about it, old boy,” I said, rubbing his back. “Really, I don’t judge. These kinds of things happen.”
“You have no idea,” he said, and suddenly looked up, his bright blue eyes saturated with moist desperation. “Have you told anybody?”
Smiling like a doting father at his frightened son, I squeezed his shoulder and said, “Not a soul, old boy, not a soul. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Really?”
Tears of gratitude were aching to slip down his cheeks.
“Really.”
“But—why? Most people would—”
“Run with that story like a dog with an itch? I know. It’s regrettable. But I’m not like them. I don’t spread smut. I’m a psychologist. I aim to understand, not undermine.”
“I … really appreciate that. Sorry—what’s your name?”
“Chalmers, Laurence Chalmers.”
And so we became amigos. We smiled, we shook hands. He hailed the barkeep and ordered a duo of whiskies. He then asked me to tell him more about myself. I did so, too. I told him about my formative years at Magdalen, when I first started pondering the nature of man—Is he good? Is he bad? Is he something in between? I missed those years, I told him.
Then, when we received our drinks, and as that initial glow of pleasant emotion that accompanies a fake new friendship began to diminish, I returned the conversation to more commercially viable topics.
“Old boy, tell me something, if you don’t mind. That night—why didn’t you just close the door? I mean, you know?”
He smiled wryly and was just starting to say “I—” when I interrupted him, a neat idea having come to mind. “Sorry to cut you short like that, but”—I slyly motioned towards the bartender—“wouldn’t you rather we move over there?” I pointed at a snug, isolated couch at the back of the room.
If the man hadn’t been convinced of my honest-to-god goodness before this show of consideration, he most certainly was now. A strange, mellow light entered his eyes, and he shook his head ever so slightly, almost as if to say, “Gosh, how wrong I had been about you.”
“Yes, let’s do that,” he said softly.
Having relocated to the aforementioned couch and wiggled ourselves comfortable, I said, “So, where were we? Ah, yes! The door. Why didn’t you just close it?”
“I did close it,” he said, “but I couldn’t see a thing. So, I just opened it a little, to get more light.”
“I see, I see, interesting; but, old boy, I recall the gap being wide enough to shed light on—and excuse my vulgarity here—more or less 10 cocks?”
Unlike Yvonne earlier, he actually spat out his drink. He wiped his smiling mouth and said, “I know. It swung open as I bent over and I … I guess I thought I’d be quick, so I just left it like that.”
“And the green room? Why didn’t you just leg it there? I mean, the concert was about to begin. Why were you even on that side of the building to begin with?”
Two flames shot out of his eyes.
“Because I’m a fucking narcissist, that’s why!”
I arched my eyebrows academically.
“Let me be the judge of that, old boy.”
“I’m telling you,” he insisted, “I was there solely to get attention, to show my smug face in the foyer. The stopover in the restroom was nothing but a pretext.”
“Hmm,” I said, “I actually remember seeing you there—in the foyer. It caused quite the furor, as if a prince was passing through. My date was so hot for your form, old boy, I’m convinced that, had you asked her, she would gladly have cancan-ed with you into that cubicle.”
He blushed. “Yes, well, fortunately for her—and me—she didn’t. It’s difficult enough finding out you have an STD without having a girl in on the matter. And I doubt she would’ve been as understanding about it as you are.”
If I didn’t intend on juicing Daniel right down to the pip, I would’ve leaned back at this point, lifted a lazy, aristocratic finger at the bartender and asked him to bring me his finest Cuban cigar. Why? Because he had just confirmed my hypothesis. He had not, as I had initially suspected, tried to fellate himself. Instead, he had, as per my later, more thoughtful hypothesis, which I artfully withheld from you until now, been inspecting the rotten fruits of a venereal disease. What led me to this conclusion? Remembering how I myself had once also stood hunched over like that, fearing for the worst.
“It’s my job, old boy,” I said humbly. “I’m supposed to be understanding.”
“Still, I really appreciate it. And I’m sorry I had a go at you earlier. I’m just going through a rough patch at the moment.”
Clasping his trapezius sympathetically, I said, “Don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it one bit. And feel free to open up to me, okay? I don’t mind lending an ear.” I released the trap. “How about that luck though, eh? Of all the nights …”
“Yeah, I know. Well, I actually noticed something odd down there a few days earlier already, while I was …” He blushed again. “… shaving, but it caused me to arrive late for a rehearsal, as I just couldn’t stop looking at this thing, so I decided to ignore it until after the concert—to stay focused. Well, obviously that didn’t happen.”
I nudged him.
“Like to look at your cock, eh? I like to contemplate my own when the opportunity arises. Very normal, that is—the habit.”
Missing the deeper element in my humor, he just smiled and said, “Yeah, but I was also beginning to think that it was probably just a false alarm, that if only I had a look now, I’d see that everything was fine, and I could put the issue to rest. So, on the night of the concert, I just thought, ah, fuck it, and had a look.”
“Did you immediately know what it was?”
“No, I was quite confused about that actually. A few days earlier, there was just this one thing … this papule; now, I could count at least a dozen of them, all in the same area. And then there was also one which was not only bigger than the others but also considerably redder. So, I started thinking I might have multiple STDs. But which ones? I only knew four: syphilis, herpes, gonorrhea, and genital warts. But what did each entail? Warts seemed to explain itself pretty well, but wasn’t herpes something similar? And which one oozed? Gonorrhea? Or was it syphilis? And didn’t syphilis produce a sore of some kind? But what exactly was a sore? Was it supposed to hurt? And didn’t you go blind? I decided on syphilis and herpes.”
“Good god!”
“I wanted to weep, and was close to, but then I thought: could I really have two STDs? I mean, one … but two? It just seemed like too much. So, I bent over to have another look, and that’s when you came in.”
“What I found notable and rather impressive was that, instead of just slipping out of there like a thief, you first stopped at the basin to wash your hands. Very—”
“But not with soap!” he retorted emphatically. “No. Wasn’t worth it. It would’ve taken too much time. And I was right, because I had barely opened the tap when I heard you zipping up—and then I did rush out.”
“To go back to your green room?”
“Yes, and I actually sort of got my head straight again. I think seeing everyone on my way back there reminded me how much worse the evening could get—so I had to stay focused. But then, when I went onstage and thanked the crowd, I spotted, maybe three rows from the front, this bearded man … looking amused. Didn’t applaud. Just sat there, looking up at me, smiling. I thought it was you, I thought it was the guy who had walked in on me—and it fucked me completely.
“Somehow, I got through the opening bit without problem, but then my thoughts started running away with me: was that a whisper? Was he telling the people next to him what he saw? Were they telling the people next to them? Were they all laughing at me? I could feel myself slipping, tightening. And then—” He expelled his breath. “I couldn’t believe what I had done. I had never done anything like it. I also didn’t think I could do anything worse, so the rest came easy—it didn’t mean anything.”
I slapped his thigh.
“As I’ve told you already, old boy, I thought you were splendid, regardless of that little mishap. But, tell me now, what did you end up having?” I pointed south.
“So, the next day, I went to go see a doctor in Bellville—”
“Bellville?” I was confused. Bellville was about a half an hour’s drive away. “Couldn’t you get an appointment in town? Or do you live there?”
“No, I don’t live there. I just … I guess I was afraid a doctor in town might recognize me and talk out, so I wanted to be safe.”
I eyed him sternly.
“A breach of doctor-patient confidentiality is a serious offense, old boy.”
“I know but, still, I wanted to be sure, and this guy seemed like my best bet. In any case, I went to him, and he told me that these ‘growths’”—he made air quotes—“were caused by something called HPV—short for human papillomavirus.
“He said it’s one of the less serious STDs—for men, at least; women can get cervical cancer—because its symptoms are all superficial. He also told me it’s very common, and that it usually remains dormant, so most people never even find out they have it.
“All of this obviously made me feel much better, but as he was freezing these ‘growths’”—he once again made air quotes—“with liquid nitrogen, I became bothered by the fact that he was also referring to them as ‘growths’, despite giving off the impression that it wasn’t the correct term. So, I pressed him about it and, after beating around the bush for a bit, he admitted that, in fact, they were genital warts.”
“No!” I said, pseudo horrified. “The fucker!”
“And that wasn’t the end of it! Because, two weeks later, by which time I was supposed to have healed, I was no better. The ‘warts’,” he said, and again made air quotes, “remained.”
Wanting to get to the bottom of all this air-quoting, I parroted the gesture and said, “The ‘warts’?”
He just smiled and said, “Just wait, you’ll see. So, two weeks later, I went back to this doctor, and this time he gave me some cream. The reaction this thing had on me … shit. Everything went all red and started swelling up. I immediately went online to read up about it, and it said the redness might never go away—might never go away! Jesus, can you imagine? On the same site, I found out what else the good doctor had kept from me: that HPV can’t be cured, that even if the warts were to disappear completely, they could come back at any time. Jesus, what a nightmare.
“To top it all off, a girl I had been seeing showed up at my house that afternoon, high as a kite, wondering why she hadn’t heard from me for a while.
“I tried to get her away by making up some story about a celibacy bet I had made with a friend, but she was having none of it—pushed past me into the house and started going wild on my carpet, begging for it. I couldn’t resist her, man. That whole morning I had been despairing about my sex life and how it would never be the same again, then she comes along, begging for it.
“I became, I became … quite aggressive with her—but I didn’t expose her to anything! I just got her off and then … got myself off in the bathroom.”
Remembering the name of the girl Pierre mentioned earlier, I said, “Was that Layla?” And seeing him frown, I winked and added, “It’s not only your sister’s voice that carries, old boy.”
He smiled and said, “No, no, that wasn’t Layla. We only met a bit later on … on Lion’s Head one afternoon. I wasn’t doing well at the time. I rarely went out of the house, spent most of my time in bed, stopped practicing, even though I had a big competition coming up—and heading up there was the only thing that gave me any sort of joy. It gave me some perspective, being up there, in the wind and the sun, with not so many girls around.” He went quiet again. “But then, one day, I ran into her. I guess not so much ran into her as approached her—initiated contact. I knew it was a bad idea, that it could only end badly, but I couldn’t help myself. There was something about her … about the way she sat there, clasping her knees, looking out over the ocean. Something pure, something innocent, which made it even worse. But there it was.
“We hit it off from the start. She was so different from the girls I knew—mature, thoughtful, sensitive. She had just arrived from New York, here to volunteer as a dance instructor.
“We met up for dinner that evening, and it went really well. So well, in fact, that we made out. Obviously, I couldn’t take things further, so I just got her a cab and headed home.
“The fucked up thing was: she was so impressed by this, man. She didn’t say it, but I could see it in her eyes. For not pushing things, she thought I was the real deal, a gentleman. And this impression only grew stronger as time went by, because we started seeing each other a lot after that, got really close, and still all I ever tried to do was kiss her. Eventually, it got to the point where she tried to take things further!
“One night, while we were just lying in bed, relaxing, these sounds started coming through the wall—her flatmate was fucking someone. At first, we just laughed about it, but then she got really turned on and started feeling me up. And I was actually close to letting it play out, because, see, by that time, I was nearly healed. After that first date, I became so desperate to get better that I made an appointment with a well-known dermatologist in town. And do you know what he told me? Do you know what he told me?! That that other doctor had fucked up! He had misdiagnosed me! I didn’t have genital warts. I actually had a completely harmless disease called molluscum … something.”
“What!”
I was shocked. I mean, here I was, operating under the impression that the man had genital warts, then he tells me that he had but a minor skin condition. It knocked me sideways.
“So, you didn’t even have an STD?” I said in a kind of pleading way.
“No, I did,” he said, much to my relief, “but it was a harmless one. And by pure dint of luck, that doctor had given me the correct cream for it. But the dermo reckoned that by pricking the papules, to get them to bleed and scab, I’d heal more quickly. And so it happened. By that evening, I was basically fine. But the dermo had not yet given me the go-ahead—I would only see him again two days later—so, as difficult as it was to do, I pushed her away and made up some excuse about not wanting to give her the impression that I was only in it for the sex.
“I expected her to be really frustrated by this, maybe even insulted, but she just seemed anxious to convince me otherwise, that she really was ready. Fortunately for me, her flatmate burst into the room a moment later, upset about something that had happened with the guy. That gave me an out. For the next two days, I avoided her by saying I had to practice for the competition, and then, finally, the dermo gave me the go-ahead.
“Jesus man, I was so happy, so happy … I could already see myself pitching up at Layla’s that evening and, you know …” The hint of happiness that had returned to his features drained away and his expression grew grim. “But then, thanks to just one question, everything changed.
“As I was about to leave, he said he hoped he wouldn’t have to see me again soon. I laughed and said it was unlikely, seeing as I had met this really nice, decent girl. He then said that that reminded him of something.
“He explained that, while the STD I had had wasn’t a serious one, it was an STD nonetheless, which meant I must’ve been somewhere unsavory, and may well have picked up other, more serious ones, which may not become apparent for years. So, in light of this, wouldn’t I—especially now that I have met this nice, decent girl—want to get tested for HIV? It would take only a few minutes and my medical aid would cover the cost.” He shuddered. “Jesus, man, I was this close to running out of there. The idea of getting tested had always terrified me, but never before had someone actually confronted me about it—and in a hospital, no less. It was just too much for me. I had to get out of there. So, I just said, ‘No, that’s fine,’ and rushed out.”
You know, it just occurred to me that, by the time you read this, HIV might no longer be a thing. I mean, I don’t want to blow my own horn here, but I’m unusually robust. Barring some freak accident, I’m bound to remain upright for many more years, during which time scientists might eradicate it or, at the very least, remove its sting. And this might lead you to wonder what all the fuss was about. Well, let me tell you.
HIV, at the time of writing, has no cure. It will cut you down unless, at some point, but ideally as early as possible, you get on antiretroviral drugs. Here’s the thing, though, the all-important thing: in most cases, you may not experience any serious symptoms for up to a decade!
Conceivably, then, you could become infected with it and, as long as you don’t get tested—because plausible deniability is essential to this enterprise—pay no price for years, go on as per normal: sow your seed, get into relationships, get married, make babies, and have no legal obligation to tell anybody anything.
Get tested early, however, and wave goodbye to life as you know it. Now you know you have a deadly disease, and that makes all the difference. Infect someone now, and society will no longer merely think it’s tragic. They’ll also think it’s criminal. They’ll think you’re a criminal. Infect someone now, and there will no longer be that gray uncertainty, helped along by years of dormancy and other sexual partners, about where they got it from. The finger of blame will point straight at your dick. Accordingly, a chap with any sense (or decency, if he is so inclined) will think twice before sleeping with someone. He’ll stay in on Friday evenings and read a book—or perhaps jump off a roof.
It’s a fucking disaster! An evolutionary death blow! The only upside of getting tested early, as far as I can tell, is that you may extend your life by a few years. But who gives a fuck about a few extra years if they’ll be miserable? And nothing seems quite as miserable and pointless to a man of sexual means as the prospect of forced celibacy, which a positive diagnosis would more or less amount to.
Can you blame a chap, then, when cordially invited to do the test, for saying, “Eh, no thanks, doc. I think I’ll give it a skip.”?
“He must’ve thought that that was it,” Daniel continued, “that I would just go ahead and sleep with Layla—because he gave me this real hard, disapproving look. But he was wrong. What he had said made me realize that Layla was too innocent, too pure—not like the girls in the clubs and bars. Not like the girls in here.” And to indicate which girls he was talking about, he made a broad sweeping gesture with his right arm, covering the bevy that had congregated by the bar, which, I was happy to note, didn’t include Heidi. “She wasn’t playing the same game as we were, and thus I had no right to expose her to its risks. I had to get tested or leave her alone.
“It was all I could think about for the rest of the day. I didn’t know what to do. If I did the test and the result came back negative, I could be with Layla. But if it was positive, then not only couldn’t I be with her, but I also couldn’t be with anyone else.
“If I chose not to get tested, on the other hand, at the very least I could still fuck around in here. But then I’d have to leave Layla, who I was in love with.” Some very strong emotion suddenly rose up in him, giving him the appearance of an expanding balloon. “I mean, I was ready to risk my life for her!” he declared.
Unable to restrain myself, I winked at him and said, “Just not your sex life, eh, my boy?”
Just for a moment, he looked confused—narrowing his eyes, furrowing his brow—before the devastating truth of my comment clobbered him over the head. He sort of collapsed in on himself and broke eye contact, ashamed.
I squeezed his trap and said, “But hey, don’t feel bad about it, okay? I think it’s commendable that you took such a strong, principled stance. Most lads wouldn’t have given it a second thought.” I removed my hand. “What did you end up doing?”
He took a moment to compose himself, then said, “Later that night, I became friendly with some Brazilian girl. I didn’t try anything with her. I just wanted to be by myself, really, to think things through. But then she got touchy with me and, at one point, as I was looking over her shoulder, I saw this old man sitting by the bar, nursing his beer, and it dawned on me just how bad it must be for him, being surrounded by all these young people, reminding him of what he no longer had.
“Living with HIV, I realized, wouldn’t be all that different from this, and I couldn’t stand the idea! I mean, I was only 23! I still had my best years ahead of me. Unlike him, women still wanted me. They were throwing themselves at me. Imagine having to say no to them all. No,” he said, shaking his head, “I couldn’t do it.
“I decided right then and there: fuck it, I wouldn’t do the test.” He drained the rest of the whisky. “The next day, I ended things with Layla.”
Hungry for details, I said, “How? What did you say?”
“Well, first I had to play in that competition I mentioned earlier and, well, that didn’t exactly go according to plan.”
“What happened?”
“We each had to play three pieces, and my first two went down without a hitch. I was feeling pretty good. But then, on the last, this really difficult Scriabin étude, I don’t know, but I suddenly started thinking about my blunder at the City Hall and—yeah, the same as then. I got tight and made a mistake. The thing is, it wasn’t even that bad. I could have recovered but, I don’t know, in the moment, I just became so angry, so angry. That I could do this twice—I just couldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t stand the idea of going on, of pretending that this level of play was acceptable to me. I wanted everyone to know just how high my standards were, just how much I thought of myself, so I smashed the keys and walked off.
“I met Layla outside and ended things right then and there. Luckily, she just assumed I did so because of my performance. So, I went along with it. When she tried to convince me that I shouldn’t be rash and that everything would be okay, I just countered her. I hated myself for lying to her like that, hurting her like that—I still hate myself—but how could I have done otherwise? I didn’t have it in me.”
Taking the reassuring line again, I strung together another banger: “Only the most honest people can admit they’re liars, old boy. Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”
He suddenly shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Looking at the screen, he said, “Sorry, I need to take this.” He put it to his ear. “Hey, are you guys done? … Yes. Should I come over there or …? Okay, call me when you’re outside … Yes, yes. Bye.” He slid the phone back into his pocket. “My sister. They’re about to head home. You don’t feel like joining us there for a drink? It’s up in Oranjezicht.”
“A drink? Yes, why not!” I finished the last of my whisky and then slapped his thigh. “Lekker! Now, tell me, old boy, what have you been up to since?”
“The breakup?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged.
“Not much, really. Drinking and fucking mostly. I also got this gig.” He motioned towards the piano. “But now that’s also going to shit.”
“I see, I see … And Layla? Do you miss her?”
He turned away, towards the bar, and as he did so, made eye contact with one of the aforementioned broads. She immediately smiled and waved—in that quick, frantic way of one who had been staring—and Daniel, taken aback, returned the gestures, but only feebly so. Then he averted his eyes and, a moment later, said, “Sometimes I cry, I miss her so much. These girls,” he said, nodding in the direction of the goggler, “they mean nothing to me. It’s only Layla I care about. If I could go back now, I’d take the test.”
Stating what seemed like the obvious, I said, “So, why don’t you?”
He frowned at me.
“Do you know how many girls I’ve been with over the past two months? Girls I barely knew? No, it’d be stupid.” He put on a brave face. “I’ll just have to live with my decision.”
I punched his shoulder.
“That’s strong of you, my friend. That’s real strong of you.” And as I looked at him with this fierce, masculine pride, an approaching pair of legs entered my field of vision. I raised my eyes. It was the girl from the bar. “You have a visitor,” I said.
He looked up.
“Christ.”
“Who is it?”
“A girl I hooked up with last weekend.”
“Daniel!” she squealed.
“Alicia,” he groaned.
She fell onto his lap.
“Why haven’t I heard from you?” she sulked.
Casting me an apologetic look, he said, “Can you maybe—”
I jumped to my feet.
“Of course! Shall I meet you downstairs?”
“Yes, just give me a minute. And Laurence—thanks. I really appreciate it.”
I winked at him.
“Don’t mention it, old boy.”