I recently learned that a threesome I set up last year could have infected me and my best friend-with-benefits with HIV. I brought together two of my favorite men, a hunky daddy and a winsome twink, for a night of hot tubbing, making out, and oral and anal sex. Randy, my best friend-with-benefits, shares my taste for smooth, short, tight-bodied twinks; I introduced him to Little Charlie, the sweetest university boy with the perkiest ass.
Charlie and I went on a few dates way back when, but we could never break into each other's lives. We worked well sexually, and I greatly enjoyed sleeping next to him. He radiated intense heat (Charlie always wore T-shirts and flip-flops in winter because of it), and it was comforting having his warm body pressed against mine as we slept. We eventually became too busy for each other, and the threesome was the first time I'd seen Charlie in several months.
Charlie had recently been very sick, first with the flu and then with pneumonia, and he'd even had to spend time in the hospital. But after a few weeks back in school, and no longer working his strenuous job, he was much better. I remember how skinny Charlie was when he took off his clothes to hop into Randy's hot tub. He'd clearly lost weight while he was sick, and his developing man-muscles were much more defined now. His small frame, with its taught skin and toned muscles, both alarmed me and titillated me.
For a moment I thought his gaunt body might be a bad sign: Perhaps Charlie was not somebody to play with right now. I wrote it off as sex guilt; besides, a hot night was developing. I knew Charlie as somebody who was incredibly hardworking (always in class, studying, going to the gym, slaving at retail, serving at a restaurant), and I figured he had worn himself down. I thought back to being in Prague: I'd gotten so incredibly sick with the flu that doctors had thought they would have to send me back to the U.S. I bounced back after a few death-like weeks -- feeling great, newly skinny, and ready to conquer the dance clubs. When I looked at Charlie's newly emaciated body, I stepped back to a more fabulous time in my own sexual memory.
Me in Prague, Czech Republic, after losing 15 pounds from the flu.
The threesome I had with Charlie and Randy gave me so many good memories, and I've often thought back to that night for masturbation material. I remember every moment, from when we stepped into the hot tub to how we ended up in bed: face-up, covered in cum, hands embraced, feet dangling off the bed, panting and smiling. Everybody was into each other, which doesn't always happen in group sex; everyone kissed and sucked, they bottomed for each other, and I topped them both. I remember rimming Charlie, his smooth bubble butt parted to reveal a sprinkling of soft hair. His ass was so warm -- throbbing hot, in fact; I found the source of his heat that night. For a moment I could taste the fantasy of going condom-free, but I knew it was not on the night's menu.
Both Randy and Charlie are fairly straight-laced, and we weren't inebriated during this encounter. What we lacked in drinks and drugs we made up for in condoms. Randy, a voracious bottom, keeps a stockpile of sizes and varieties in his bedside cabinet. It's never a question in his bedroom: You always use condoms during anal sex. We went at it several times, changing condoms to switch partners or after getting soft while taking a breather. Sometimes, in my masturbatory fantasies of that night, I airbrush those condoms out of my memory, although we still ejaculate on each other during my re-editings, as we did in real life.
I went to get tested for HIV a few weeks ago, almost a year since I saw Charlie in our last adventure. As I went through the motions of the testing ritual -- questions, guesstimates, signatures -- that night with Charlie and Randy was many months out of my mind. My testing place, ANIZ of Georgia, surprised me with an Insti-HIV test, which was something I'd never done. Instead of the dreaded 20-minute wait in the lobby, where you sweat out your sexual fears, results are ready in one minute. The counselor strapped on gloves and pulled a trickle of blood from my finger; she mixed the blood with various vials and then poured everything into the testing pack. She said one dot means negative and two dots means preliminarily positive, and we stared at it for 60 seconds as it developed. After a brief moment of heart-stopping anxiety for me, it came up as one dot for negative.
My completed Insti-HIV test.
My "status card" from Aniz, Inc., of Georgia.
Later that night, newly empowered by my reissued status card, I texted Little Charlie to see how he was and to possibly put together a hookup. We both wanted to meet up soon for dinner and play, although there would be no more threesomes with Randy, because he is practically married these days. Just before we made plans, Charlie texted me that he needed to tell me one thing: He was HIV-positive now.
I immediately told Charlie that I love him, and I wanted to know whether he was mentally and physically healthy. He said yes, mostly. I flashed back to the night with Randy, and I asked Charlie if that flu and pneumonia were the results of his seroconversion, the wretched sickness one gets after contracting HIV and the virus proliferates in the body and destroys immune cells.
"Yes," he texted back.
During our last sexual encounter, that threesome I often visualize when I need to get off, Charlie was HIV-positive and didn't know it. We all unwittingly had sex while Charlie was at his most contagious, and I was the one who'd organized the event. What stood between becoming infected myself and also causing one of my best friends to become infected were the all the condoms we went through. I enjoyed my private intergenerational bareback fantasy; however, I was thankful that it was not one that Randy would have let me enact. Randy has since tested negative for HIV as well, and he says that night was neither the first nor the last time we would unknowingly have sex with an infected partner. In my fantasies of that night, all I see now are those condoms; without that millimeter of latex, our lives would have been irreversibly changed by that threesome.
Randy has taught me much about being a good gay man; I admire him because he likes hot boys, good sex, and always using condoms. I am thankful that he is in my life, and I wish more young gays could learn from a true gentleman daddy like Randy.