Filed under: Dear Diary
So I just sneaked back home from fucking Isao. Yes, the one I suspect to have given me HIV. I figured, what the hell, no point holding it against him any more – what’s done is done, right? Ok, maybe that’s not entirely the reason. He is, first cousin to the devil aside, still a very hot man, and I have my needs – all pent up and waiting to burst. So pent up that a few romps I had while in Bangkok a few days ago (a grand total of *drumrolls* – two), seem to not have satisfied me.
With Isao it’s different, he’s familiar territory, HIV-infested, but familiar; as I am to him. He knows my ass will bleed from the rough raw fucking from his larger-than-average cock because he came prepared with wet wipes and tissues this time, so I figured, he knows me well enough too. Okay fine, so I’ve been wanting to bareback for a while. Maybe that’s largely the reason why I relented (he’d been asking to go out with me in forever anyway, just thought I’d get it over and done with).
That aside, my counsellor has egged me into doing yet another interview, this time on camera about, what else, my HIV. I almost sometimes feel like the de-facto person whenever he thinks, young, eloquent(interview-worthy), HIV positive person who is willing to share. I know the previous one he coaxed me into doing blew up (as in, front page of a mainstream paper blew-up) on me, but he assured me this time it’s different, and being the young naive boy I am, I obliged. I just hope I don’t come to regret this like I did the previous time. Anyway, regret pays, I get a nifty allowance from being his anonymous bitch to just yaddle about my life and how I feel, seems like an almost-fair trade off.
Forgive me for seeming nonchalant about walking through the same dangerously dark alley I took and previously got hurt at – I guess I’m used to the pain. It’s like taking a rollercoaster for the second time, you’re not as tense or even, afraid even though it’s still just as scary because you know exactly what’s going to happen next. In some sadistic way, I think it’s somewhat of a thrill to walk down my own wrong choices once more, see if a second go could be better; if not, what the heck, it’s not like it hasn’t happened to me before.
Seeing my brother following me down this alley on the other hand is a completely different thing. As much as I could tell him to stop, and I want to, I don’t because who’s going to listen to someone who walks down the wrong road over and over again? Besides, how stubborn are people in the sense that the more you tell them that’s the wrong way, the more hard up they are on walking it. All I can do really is pray he wisens up unlike his stupid older brother; the bad influence, the failure. I’m not just talking about the gay thing, just yesterday I caught him digging at his throat to get out the remains of the omelette he picked right off my plate. I did just the same after he did. It would be an irony to act all holier-than-him if I sat him down to talk – about anything really. At times I get honestly depressed that I wasn’t a better role model of an older brother I could be, in studies, in life, in religion – and I don’t do a damn thing about it, because I can’t. Who’s going to listen to the drug addict who tells you to stop doing ecstasy?
We walk the same wrong roads again not because we know no other way to the destination, but perhaps because we’re all too familiarised with the perilous pavement. For someone else to walk the same road that we are, even after they see you hurt from it, is just plain stupid. I just wish there were a way I could make my younger brother see that.
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