*Based on my own experience. Enjoy a short story from me.*

My watch shows it's 11pm. The cafe's almost closed, but he's not replying. I waited patiently as down another cup of black coffee. No sugar.

Should have asked for sugar. But no, the waistline! Such a dilemma. Coffee's not helping. I'm getting even more nervous.

Ding!

My fingers swiped to see his answer.

"There's nothing wrong with your results, Tom."

"You're sure, Izzu?"

"It's just your hepatitis antibodies getting low. I could give you a jab and a hardcopy of the report on Monday."

My heart lets off a sigh of relief, but my brain is bringing me back to a memory from a year ago.

***

"Dear, you should get yourself checked. We're in this relationship for four years. Could you at least do this for me? You requested to see my health report when we're together, so now it's your turn to do it."

I sat in his car, fiddling with the seat belt. I've always liked the seat belt. He puts this little padding on it that helps to keep your shirts getting all wrinkly when you're using it. Hmm. Little monkey on a seatbelt.

"Okay, anything for you." I replied half-heartedly. I mean, why should I go get tested? I have been faithful. I'm not like the other guys. I don't have Jackd. I don't have Grindr.  I don't meet other guys! I don't have a gay social life! Why want me go get tested?

***

"You're tested positive for gonorrhea, Mr Tom."

"Err... You're sure, doctor? I really have been faithful. No other guys."

"You do drugs?"

"No. Of course not."

"You drink?"

"Socially yes, but I don't get myself drunk."

"Maybe you'd like to discuss this with your partner."

The Whatsapp messages flew. Dear is to go the clinic to get tested right away after work. Report came back. He's negative. How could this be? Where have I gotten it?

"You don't have to worry, Mr. Tom. I'll prescribe you a course of antibiotics and a jab. It is most important you get this treated, as having an STI may increase the chances of getting other infections as well as HIV."

***

We broke up a few months after that. There's nothing now but cordial messages between us, and the occasional Facebook status updates. We didn't unfollow or unfriend each other. We just ignore the streams of photos that our friends tagged us.

Friends. I have a few friends. For benefits, that is.

You have no idea how these men worshipped me. I still get messages from them whenever they're in town. But sometimes it's just so sudden, that I couldn't accommodate them all. There's work and there's family. I couldn't fuck every night, even if I wanted to.

How much has changed. I, the wallflower that refuses to participate in the orgies and fantasies of the gay community, finally succumbed to it, for I, wanting to drown myself in the hedonistic waves, relieving me of this sorrow, this sorrow of breaking up with the first man I've ever loved.

But of course it comes with a price. Condoms are not cheap. Lube is not cheap. Getting tested in a private clinic, in the comfort of an understanding doctor, is not cheap. And that's what happened in the first paragraph. My doctor Whatsapped me my results. Or more like my old flame Whatsapping me my results.

Then, it dawned on me.

For four years, I've been stupid enough to believe a man who says that he is as faithful as I am to him. I got gonorrhea when I am with him.

I got nothing when I practically fucked each and every guy who is sexually compatible with me.  

His pride. And his lies.

Goodbye motherfucker.