Sit Down First
It was actually a nice evening. We were staying with a friend, shoving warm wraps into our mouths, streaming terrible movies from the internet. Big bed, plenty of space. Then someone mentioned HIV. The thing about it is it starts like the flu—you hear nothing about it for ten years—then it hits you all at once. I’ve heard the story a thousand times. But this time the thought just kept circling in my head all night long.
The next day I was Googling every symptom. Fatigue—yeah, I had that. Headaches—my constant companion. Rash on my right thigh. Diarrhea. A cough that felt like my lungs were trying to escape. General malaise. The internet is a genuine asshole when you’re already paranoid.
For a solid week I was absolutely certain I had HIV. The final stage. Game over. I watched YouTube videos of young people who were infected but somehow still cheerful. Documentaries about new medications. Blogs from gay activists. Guides on how to tell my family. My coworkers. My gym buddies. My girlfriend. Everyone. I had my whole new life mapped out.
So I went to the Berlin AIDS help center and got tested. The waiting room was covered in pamphlets about disease and homosexuality and weekly social gatherings for patients and their families. I was already imagining myself as a full member, finally finding real friendship, meeting the love of my life—all courtesy of a killer virus. Maybe this was where my actual life began.
The staff were all nice. Detlev and Roman in the hallway, the campy receptionist, the over-talkative counselor, the round-faced doctor. Everyone was nice. Was this your first test, they asked. Yeah, I said, embarrassed. After they took blood, I had to wait half an hour. I sat on a bench in a small park around the corner and thought about basically everything.
I ran through my sexual history like a reel of film. There was Sabrina at some terrible party, though she was only sixteen but something about—never mind. Bianca, who in certain circles was known to be very accommodating, suddenly made sense. She always smelled weird down there. Then there was Melanie. Melanie. Haven’t heard from her in years. Wonder if she’s even still alive.
Of course I was scared. When you’re sitting on a wooden bench having convinced yourself for a week that you’re dying, mapping your entire sexual history onto possible routes of infection, already sure the test will come back positive, you’re terrified. Genuine, sweating, numb terror.
Back in the waiting room they called my anonymous number. I shouted Here!
and stumbled to the desk. The counselor glanced at the most important document of my entire existence and said, Um… yes… let’s go to the counseling room. We’ll have privacy. Sit down first.
Sit down first? Sit down first?! Jesus Christ, I would’ve rather called my mom, run to church to confess, built a time machine and punched myself from six years ago in the nuts rather than fuck Sabrina, anything but sit down. Not sitting. Not happening.
Of course the test was negative. Otherwise this would be written in a voice dripping with melancholy and shame, the kind of thing that would make even Julian Assange cry. She just wanted to show me what the rapid test looked like and pocket my fifteen euros. That was it.
So life went on. No social gatherings with the AIDS community. No new best friends. No grand love affair. I went back to normal almost immediately, and I was almost disappointed by it. I kept waiting for that movie moment—where you suddenly realize how lucky you are, see everything differently, book a flight to Tokyo, donate to African orphanages, reorganize your whole life around family and meaning instead of slowly dying in an office waiting for retirement. It never came.
We celebrated with beer and MDMA and danced until sunrise at some dingy bar in Kreuzberg, but mostly because it was a holiday the next day. The euphoria, the gratitude, the transformation—none of it stuck. Why? Maybe because those moments only exist while you’re in them. Maybe because too many kids actually get the diagnosis they’re terrified of. Maybe because HIV and AIDS are still out there and still killing people for real.
The only thing that actually stuck is that now whenever I’m about to ditch a condom because I’m horny or I’ve decided to trust someone, I hear her voice: don’t be stupid. Who knows what’s already been in there. Or better yet, don’t do it at all. Just have a nice evening instead. Warm wraps. Shit movies. Good friends.