Reflections on grief, sex, and a blue pill called PrEP.
I took it for the first time a few days ago. At the gym. Early on a Wednesday morning. After closing the Exercise Ring on my Apple Watch, re-racking all the plates and taking a long, hot shower.
Hump day. Leg day. Fuck how I hate leg day. Squat. Lunge. Extend. Repeat.
As much as I hate leg day, I find comfort and focus in the rhythm and routine of my early morning workouts since Charles-Eric died. The gym has become my sanctuary. A place where I don’t have to answer questions or tell anyone anything. No one here knows that it’s been four months since mental illness took him away from me. That I’ve been robbed of my person, the life we were sharing, and the plans we were making. That I sleep on his side of the bed and that I sometimes find myself reaching over in the middle of the night to pull him closer to me, only to find a pillow where he should be, and cry myself back to sleep.
At the gym, I’m just another guy who wants to work in on the Smith machine or who makes small talk with the naked old men in the sauna. Conversations about the weather, construction on the bridge, or a summer cabinet shuffle. Banal, routine, quotidian.
Sometimes while I’m working out a song comes on that reminds me of him and I find myself crying in the mirror between sets. Peering into my own eyes, I catch a glimmer of my reflection the way I sometimes did in his eyes when we fucked, or when he brought a spoon to my lips — imploring me to taste what he was cooking, or when I held him in my arms after a wave of anxiety had passed and he realized that he was safe.
I miss so many things about him. His quick wit, his cute smirk, and his perfect boyfriend dick. Yeah I’m going there, because that’s the fucking truth. I miss his body, his touch, his not-so-secret turn ons, and all the ways we had sex. The lazy Sunday morning sex. The quickie in the car on a road trip to his best friend’s cottage. The hey babe, we’re not doing that again, ok? sex. The occasional dalliances we shared with guys that we likened to dessert. Chocolate mousse? Vanilla ice cream? Key lime pie? Jesus, what I’d give to share something sweet with him once more. Even the mediocre I’m just doing this to get you off so you’ll stop pestering me sex. All the kinds of sex that came with the intimacy, love and vulnerability shared between us over the years we had together.
A Taylor Swift song comes on and I shake it off. Increase the weight, add a few more reps and push through to failure. Log a new personal best in my fitness app. Grief gains and a gold star — this is my morning routine.
We had talked about it before he died. The blue pill that many of our friends were taking. No, not THAT blue pill, but PrEP (Pre-exposure prophylaxis), essentially ongoing or on-demand protection from a virus and disease that were once a stigma-ridden death sentence, especially amongst the queers, robbing a generation of their potential, breaking hearts, and taking the lives of far too many people far too soon.
An antidote for death — now available in tablet form. Side effects may include nausea, upset stomach, headache or diarrhea. Ask your doctor to learn more.
So I did. But fuck it wasn’t easy, sitting in the clinic wondering what she would think. “So my partner died recently, and I’d like a ‘script for PrEP.” I felt like I was cheating on him. I felt overwhelmed by the fact that the life I shared with him was over. I felt shame and guilt for my desire to have sex. I felt all of that and more. I felt like I was going to throw up.
Thankfully I didn’t.
Before taking my vitals, my doctor looked me in the eyes and expressed her genuine condolences. “Thank you for sharing, and I’m so sorry for what you’re going through.” She offered empathy and kindness, followed by some questions. How are you coping? Do you need time away from work? Are you sleeping well? She then explained the process and the possible side effects of PrEP, ordered the standard tests and booked me an appointment at the sexual health clinic down the street.
As I got up to leave her office, she reassured me that I was making a good decision in a terrible circumstance. That it was important for me to take care of myself. Her words gave me a sliver of something I didn’t realize I needed. Something I hadn’t yet been able to give myself: permission.
Permission to accept the fact that my sex life with him was over. Permission to consider the joy and pleasure of having sex with others. Permission to let go of guilt and shame. Permission to take care of myself.
A few days later I popped into the sexual health clinic. They drew blood. Asked a few more questions. A swab here, a poke there. The cute doctor booked a follow up appointment a month from now, gave me my prescription and sent me on my way.
Twenty minutes. That’s all it took.
I sat in the car with the prescription in my hands and felt an overwhelm of emotion. I wept tears of grief for the lover I’d lost and with whom I’d never have sex with again. Tears of relief that my interactions with the healthcare system were sex-positive and focused on my needs. Tears of sadness for the millions of people who died of AIDS and who didn’t get the protection that this little slip of paper and that blue pill were going to give me.
Back to the gym. On hump day. Fucking leg day. I pop the blue pill, take a sip of water and look into my eyes in the mirror as I swallow it down. I think of him — his quick wit, his cute smirk, and his perfect boyfriend dick. I remember what he told me in the letter that he left me as I look for him in my reflection. I tell him that I love him and that yes babe, I’m going to be ok.
Banal, routine, quotidian. Like my morning conversations with the old men in the sauna, this blue pill — this antidote for death — will become a part of my daily ritual at least for the next little while.
Shower. Shave. PrEP. Repeat.
I love you and I fucking miss you, babe.
Author’s Note
If you want to learn more the ongoing history of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, the incredible advances in science and research that are preventing the spread of the virus and treating people with HIV/AIDS, or about how you can access PrEP, I encourage you to:
Visit the Canadian Foundation for AIDS Research (CANFAR) website and learn more about their work to end Canada’s HIV epidemic and HIV stigma.
Scroll through the AIDS Memorial Project on Instagram — sharing stories of love, loss and remembrance for those who’ve died of AIDS.
Check out community organizations active where you live including those that are part of the Gay Men’s Sexual Health Alliance (like Max Ottawa) that provide accessible information about PrEP and how to get it.
Watch It’s a Sin, a five-episode limited series that set in London between 1981 and 1991 that depicts the lives of a group of gay men and their friends during the HIV/AIDS crisis in the United Kingdom.
