Disclosure is always called for -- not telling someone because you're pretty sure they already have it is bullshit and cowardly.
We were naked. He was hard. I'd always considered this moment the best time to disclose, because rejection seemed less likely when the possibility of a good lay was hot-breath close.
I snatched the bra he had struggled to free and the top I lustfully tore off minutes ago. This was always the weirdest part: negotiating a leave. I’d worry about how to escape this foreign part of Brooklyn later.
The first time I told a man, I couldn’t help but cry. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Do you want to be alone? I’m gonna go.” He jumped into his jeans and out the door.
The second time, we — a different he — were stoned.
“Wait, what?” he said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m having a hard time processing this information right now. Let’s just fuck.” He was bleary eyed and hazy, the sex jabby and inhuman.
The Conversation continued to ruin my life after dark; disclosure brought the othering I had dreaded. [emphasis added]
That’s when I realized I was picking the wrong men.
And then one day at the office I met him, a tall, dark-haired, sunkissed drink of coworker water. It was an instant workplace romance.
Thanks to herpes, I took things slow, until the temptation to make things NSFW grew too strong.
We finally kissed: in his apartment, by the fish tank, his room steps away. “I have to tell you something...” I began.
COMMENT DELETED: Spam