Resident Emen8 baddie Darcy Spits (they/them) divulges a dreamy night with Ángel under the strobe lights. As dawn replaces night and beds replace dance floors, Darcy learns an important lesson in HIV transmission and stigma.
Magenta and aquamarine strobes flash across my face through closed, shadowed eyelids. I pass the small black bottle to my friend, barely screwing the lid back on. Throwing my head back, I let the bass of the speaker course through my body and out my fingertips. The scent of chemicals lingers in my nostrils, sending waves of euphoria through my thumping head. A bead of salty sweat dances along my contoured temple, dampening the sides of my freshly flowing mullet. Licking my lips (desperate for lip gloss), I flick my eyes open, adjusting to the dim, flashing lights.
My friends form a crescent shape to the left of the raised DJ booth. Like the stars, we shine in our unique styles: Y2K silhouettes, black leather, skinny flares, with silver and gold jewellery reflecting the now brat-emerald strobes. As the euphoria subsides, I can’t help but nurse a wide grin at them, who remain in various states of bliss.
As I bring my gloss to my lips, something catches my eye.
A person almost floating across the dancefloor lands a few groups away from us. They move with such grace that their oversized suit sleeves seem fused to their flowing arms.
Their plump, bristled lips fall open slightly, revealing a glimmering tooth gem. Their dark hair is flattened, curling up at the ears and catching the turquoise lights. Sparkling eyeshadow, almost the same blueish green as their highlights, shapes their big brown eyes and long lashes. Pink blush rouges their brown cheeks, highlighter allowing their wide cheekbones and button nose to sparkle.
And now, those dark, inviting eyes are staring right back at me. I quickly pocket the gloss. My cheeks pull in an awkward smile, hoping I didn’t scare them off with my gawking. To my delight, that shiny gem sparkles again. Taking their grin as a sign, I wander over, my hands flailing at the sides of my skirt. My friends give me major side-eye as I navigate the sweaty bodies between us.
‘Hi’, I offer, octaves higher than usual.
‘Hey,’ they reply in a relaxed timbre, ‘I’m Ángel.’
They’re even more gorgeous up close, as if they came straight from a Vogue shoot.
‘Darcy’, I wave even though we’re too close. Why am I so horrific at flirting? Of course, they are a literal angel, and I probably look like a drowned rat.
Shiny bodies mingle around us. Now orange and violet, the lights highlight every angle of their tanned face.
‘What’re your pronouns, cutie?’ They ask with a grin.
Good sign.
‘They/them, how ‘bout you?’
‘Yeah, I could kinda tell,’ they chuckle, gesturing to my outfit and make-up, ‘mine are they/he’.
Beautiful, fashionable AND funny; where did this person come from? Heaven, obviously
Later in the night, Ángel and I find ourselves sitting on a sticky staircase at the back of the club, deep in conversation. My initial butterflies had long flown away, and I was really enjoying his company. It was getting late; my friends had already left, and we both knew what was coming. Just ask the question.
‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ I blurt out.
A pause, they breathe in and reply with a smile, ‘Sure, I’d like to.’
‘Cool, just give me a sec. I really need to pee,’ giving them a soft kiss on the cheek before scurrying to the bathroom.
In the mirror, most of my makeup is smeared, my hair is a mess, and my lips are raw. I touch up my lip gloss and attempt to fix my dishevelled mane. When I open my phone to check that my friends have gotten home safely, a notification stops me.
The PrEPtime notification reads, ‘It’s time to take your PrEP’.
SHIT! I forgot to take my PrEP! Must have left it on the bench when everyone arrived at mine for pres. A knot gnaws at the pit of my stomach. It’s that same feeling as when I had to let a hookup know I had gonorrhea. Ugh!
I remind myself that I have a beautiful person waiting for me outside. There’s always condoms, remember. Taking a deep breath, I finish fixing my make-up as best I can and find Ángel at the staircase nursing a wide grin.
Back at mine, our clothes join the general clutter left from pres on the floorboards. After hours of making out and talking about our lives, our transness and our backgrounds (he’s a half Colombian, half Thai transmasc), we are eager to explore each other’s bodies. In my jock, which is firmly pressed up against Ángel’s thigh, I can feel a patch of wet precum forming. Our legs interlocked; I can feel their pack-and-play rub against my thigh as another spurt of precum releases.
We stumble from the arm of my couch to my bedroom, stopping along the way to acquaint ourselves with various walls and surfaces of my apartment.
Finally making it to my room, we fall onto my bed in an embrace, Ángel grinding up to straddle me.
The dim shine of the moon reflects off their brown upper body, deepening around their scars and chest hair. Their soft-around-the-edges love handles hang over their black boxers.
I realise I’ve been staring again, transfixed in his beauty.
‘I have something to tell you,’ He interrupts.
They take a pause, enough time for me to get lost in those big, brown eyes.
‘I’m poz,’ he reveals.
That knot in my stomach returns, and I try not to show it on my face.
‘Okay…thanks for telling me’, I offer, staggering a little over my words. ‘I should probably also say I forgot to take my PrEP… so maybe we should use a condom?’ My face reddens.
‘Right, well, you could take your PrEP now if you want; taking it a couple of hours late doesn’t hurt if you use it every day. Also, I’ve been on treatment for a few years now, which means I’m undetectable. So even if we don’t use condoms or PrEP, there’s no chance of me passing on HIV. Plus, I’m more of a top these days anyway. But we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed…’ I smile ashamedly, ‘I’ve heard of undetectable before, but I guess I never knowingly hooked up with someone who’s undetectable before. Thanks for explaining it to me. I get tested for STIs regularly, so I’m happy not to use a condom.’
‘That’s okay, well should we…’ he smirks.
That frenzied passion returns. And, oh my, it’s probably some of the best sex I’ve had in a while; they clearly know what they’re doing. After kissing every inch of each other’s bodies (except his chest, which he asked to avoid), they open me up with their tongue, stubble tickling my hole. He’s slow and precise, using trimmed, lubed-up fingers to stretch me out. Expertly finding and milking my prostate with his packer, I grasp my sheets, writhing in pleasure for a good hour. I didn’t know I had it in me, but I came twice while he fucked me. I’ll definitely need to wash these sheets tomorrow!
Afterwards, we lay, legs tied in knots, in a euphoric, post-fuck glow. Thin rays of dawn puncture my windows and begin to illuminate the Art Deco posters on my wall.
My thoughts flicker over the events of the night in a sleepy haze. A moment of gratitude sparks as I replay my reaction to his HIV status. He was so lovely for responding as he did, explaining what undetectable meant and even knowing about my PrEP dosing. I guess knowledge really is power — and if Ángel’s anything to go by, that’s sexy as! I’ll certainly bring what I’ve learnt tonight to future hookups. I’m lucky to have met this angel.
We fall asleep in each other’s arms as the sun comes up. My heart (and hole) full.
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