Johnny Sampson

In a Seattle diner, I meet a guy. We flirt. He doesn't strike me as husband material, but with a passing resemblance to the boyish Kennedys and sparkling blue eyes, this short-order fry cook will do for now. We date, and eventually he makes it to my apartment. We end up in bed, fumbling around. We do not use condoms because I can't be bothered with believing I'm worth keeping safe. We screw and he comes inside me. Right after he finishes, I say, "We should probably worry about HIV." And he says, his handsome face a few inches from mine, his wide smile visible in the darkness, "Oh, I don't believe in AIDS." "LAURA"

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