I Thought I Caught HIV from my One-Night Stand
As a sex addict I behave recklessly and selfishly to satisfy my desires. Names have been changed to protect myself and my victims.
Twenty years ago, catching HIV was still considered a death sentence by most people. But back in 2001 at 27 years old, I was sticking my dick in as much pussy as I could, and only wearing a condom if the girl absolutely insisted. I was crazy, reckless, and to be fair not much has changed now.
The Club
I met Masego in a local nightclub. It was unusual back then to see girls who looked as exotic as her in my local town. I lived in white suburbia; a London commuter town where anybody foreign stood out a country mile.
I’d be lying if I said I remember much about the events in the club. All I remember was her body, it was perfection. She was slim, toned, and with curves in all the right places. She had really dark skin, and long straight black hair. Her ample tits were pushed up on display, jumping out of her tight black catsuit. I don’t remember how we started talking, but I do remember thinking to myself that I’d never fucked a black girl before, and it was another one to chalk off the list.
The Deed
I took her home and fucked her, but I don’t remember much about that as I was so drunk, which was the norm. In the morning I woke up with the usual hangover horn, and I realised I’d done the deed in the early hours without a condom. I woke her up and fucked her again, cumming inside her for a 2nd time without a thought to it. I remember thinking that she was shit in bed, just lying there like a sack of potatoes, and she had terrible body odour.
The Aftermath
It was after then that I learned her name and we started having a conversation. She spoke with a really thick African accent and I was curious.
“So where are you from, Masego?” I asked.
“I am from Botswana,” she informed me. “I lived in a village. My husband found me there when I was fifteen years old and he bring me to England.”
Here’s the funny thing, like most people my age, I was brought up to be petrified of HIV. When I was a kid the TV stations pumped out government infomercials, warning us ‘Don’t Die of Ignorance.’ My sexual addiction meant that despite my fears, I behaved recklessly and impulsively, putting the needs of my cock above any rational thought of my health. But in the cold light of day, I used to worry a lot about HIV, and spent hours researching various stats. I knew Botswana had a very high prevalence of HIV, and in the cold light of day I felt a wave of fear start to come over me.
“Were you a virgin when your husband met you in Botswana?” I tried to make this intrusive question sound as casual and normal as possible.
“What kind of question is that, Kai?” she replied.
“I’d like to know, that’s all,” I persisted.
“No, I wasn’t a virgin, lots of men in the village do things to me.”
The wave of fear grew. I asked her question after question, probing her gently but relentlessly, and she went on to tell me so much more.
“My husband rescued me, but I don’t like him. He is a bastard. He have lots of girlfriends, and he always in Thailand and Africa with other women. But I don’t care, I have boyfriend.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, but I don’t like him either. He always taking drugs.”
“What kind of drugs?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Does he smoke them?”
“No, he uses needle with his friends.”
“Wait. He shares the same needle with other people”
“Yes, I have seen him many times. It is not nice for me to see, he should do in private.”
Fuck being not nice I thought. The guy 100% has AIDS. I tried not to let my fear show. I changed the subject.
“What do you do for work, Masego?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied. The strange response made me dig deeper. Eventually she said, “I work in a house with other women, and men come there.” I tried to probe deeper, but she closed up.
So here I was, having spent most of the night bare-backing a girl, who hailed from Botswana with it’s high HIV prevalence rate. She had been fucked by the village men, had a prostitute shagging husband, had a needle-sharing junkie boyfriend, and to top it off, it sounded like she was working in a brothel. Any one of those things on their own would have put the fear of god into me, but in the cold light of day and with them all combined, I felt physically sick with fear.
I didn't voice my concerns, instead I drove her home, went through the pantomime of collecting her phone number along with a promise to call, and decided to forget about her.
But I couldn’t forget. The next few days were absolute hell. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I’d been through this before, once really badly when a condom had split whilst I was fucking a prostitute in Amsterdam. But this was on par, and I absolutely convinced myself that I had caught HIV from this girl.
I phoned HIV testing centres, but I was told I’d have to wait six months in order to receive an accurate result. I realised that there was no way I could wait that long feeling like this. I didn’t think I had AIDS; I knew I had AIDS.
I called Masego; she seemed surprised and happy to hear from me. “I want you to be my new boyfriend, Kai.” I was somewhat taken aback.
I explained that I would be her boyfriend, but I told her that I needed her to get an HIV test first. She seemed perplexed, but agreed. I couldn’t book a free NHS test, as there was a wait for the appointment, and then a further 7–10 day wait for the results. There was a new test at the time which could give HIV results within 15 minutes, but it was only available privately and cost £100. But I was desperate and would have paid much more than £100 to know Masego’s HIV status. I told her that I’d book the test, pay for it, and take her to the clinic.
I remember that it was a Saturday when we drove up to the clinic in Central London. Masego and I chatted on the way there, but I could tell that she was nervous, like me. The doctor called us in from the waiting room together.
“So, who is having a test today?” he asked.
“She is,” I replied gesturing towards Masego.
“And why aren’t you having one?” he enquired.
“Because if she doesn’t have it, I don’t have it,” I offered. This was true, I was forever getting tested because of my recklessness, and all my tests had come back negative.
He enquired as to where Masego was from, and she told him.
He must have seen that we were scared, because he tried to put our minds at rest. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The prevalence rate of HIV in Botswana is only about 30 per cent.”
I remember thinking, Only 30 per cent. Is this guy fucking kidding? You’ve got better odds playing Russian roulette.
He asked if there were any other reasons for wanting a test, so with a nod of approval from Masego I nervously told him about her husband, and the drug addict boyfriend. I stopped short of telling him that she was a sex worker, I didn’t want to embarrass her.
He listened intently, then said, “Yes, well in light of all those circumstances, a test is probably wise.” He took her blood and told us to wait outside while the machine did its work.
We sat in the waiting room for five minutes and then I asked Masego if she wanted to come outside with me as I was going to have a cigarette. Outside, she asked me if she could have a cigarette too. As I lit her cigarette, I noticed that her hands were shaking, and I asked her why.
“I think I have this HIV,” she replied.
We smoked our cigarettes in silence, each to our own thoughts. I wondered if she felt as sick as I did.
Back in the waiting room, we stayed silent. It’s hard to describe the fear that racked my body. I made myself a promise that if the test came back negative, I would never bareback a stranger again. I’d made this promise to myself before, and I’d broken it. But this time would be different. I thought about how much my life would be impacted with HIV. My whole being was about the weekends, pulling girls, fucking them, and doing it all over again the next weekend. I loved it, it was fun, exciting, every weekend brought something new and different. I didn’t want that to be over, and I didn’t want to die of AIDS.
The doctor appeared and he must have seen the sheer terror etched on our faces. The correct thing to do was to call us into his office and give us the results. But he bent down and whispered to us, “It’s all okay, it’s fine, come into my office.” He was a kind doctor.
Even walking into his office, despite what he’d whispered I didn’t dare to get my hopes up too much, he hadn’t yet said negative. But once we were settled in his office, he confirmed the result was negative. Masego and I beamed at each other.
Driving home Masego asked me if I was her boyfriend now, and if we could go for something to eat. I lied to her and said yes, I was her boyfriend now, but I was busy today and I’d call her to arrange a date.
I never called her, I wanted to put as much distance between us as possible. I just wanted to go back to my party life, hanging out with my friends and having fun. I can’t remember for sure, but I don’t think Masego called me either.
I learned nothing
About six months later I walked out of a nightclub in my hometown to walk to the taxi rank. I’d had a fun night with my friends as usual, but a poor one in the sense that I hadn’t scored with any women.
Suddenly someone prodded my back. I spun round and to my surprise it was Masego. “I saw you in the club,” she said in her thick Botswanan accent. “YOU WERE TALKING WITH A WHITE WOMAN!” she shouted and prodded me again in the chest. I was flabbergasted.
“What’s wrong with talking to a white woman?” I asked. Her question rattled me because where I lived, nearly everyone was white, and so was I. She didn’t answer my question.
“Why didn’t you call me, Kai?” she asked. She was angry, shouting, and wanted some answers. I was drunk and she looked hot. I’d forgotten how sexy her body looked. I told her I was taking her home with me, and she didn’t argue.
The sex the second time round was as bad as the first time, she was shit in bed, hardly moved. I didn’t wear a condom, but justified it to myself as she was HIV negative.
In the morning I fucked her again without a condom, then went for a pee instantly regretting my behaviour of the previous few hours. As I walked back into my bedroom, I saw Masego on my bed, and I gasped. Her lovely long dark hair had somehow vanished or fallen out, and her head was totally bald. “Sorry Kai, my wig was too itchy, I had to take it off.” I was shocked, I had believed that her lovely dark hair was real.
As we left my house, my mother (who only lived in the next street at the time) had decided to walk round to mine and weed my front lawn to do me a favour. She was busy bent over, pulling out the weeds from the grass.
“Kai, what is this woman doing in your garden?” said Masego, wig firmly back in place. She seemed somewhat disgusted to see a strange lady on my property.
Without missing a beat, my mother replied, “Oh don’t mind me love, I’m just the hired help.”
I burst out laughing, and said to Masego, “This is my Mum.” Masego’s attitude changed in a flash and she went up to my mother to kiss her hello. I drove Masego home and promised I’d call her this time. I never did, and I never bumped into her again.
You would think that after being convinced I’d caught HIV, all the associated worry that came with it, and along with the time and cost to get tested, I would have learned to wear a condom. The truth is I didn’t, and even despite the fact that the drunken sex was a poor experience, my sex addiction meant that I would keep going back for more of the same.
Who am I?
My name is Kai Starsky, I’m 47 years old. I’ve slept with well over a thousand women. I’m a sex addict, and it’s an addiction I’ve never had a desire to fix. I have a girlfriend who I’ve been seeing for ten months and she’s asked me about my past. I’m a lot more honest than I used to be, and I’ve told her about some of my antics. It’s her idea that I should document these stories, she thinks people would be interested in hearing about the life of a sex addict. I don’t know, but I’ll write them and see. Everything I write (besides the names) is true.
