It began on a warm sunny afternoon in late November, 2005. Wait. Let me back up just a bit. It began on a hot, relatively muggy afternoon in early September, 2005. I at the beginning of my final year of law school and was ecstatic that I’d made it off the waiting list and into the criminal trial clinic. I sat in the over-air-conditioned room and chatted with Steph, a girl I’d met during orientation two years prior. As we chatted, in walked the cutest, dreamiest law school boy ever. (Remember that most law school boys are decidedly unattractive. Thus, to be the “cutest, dreamiest law school boy ever” isn’t saying a whole lot. Though even on a normal-non-law-school scale, this boy was pretty cute.)
For narrative purposes, and to protect his privacy, I will call the boy “Charlie.” Charlie sauntered into the room and struck up a conversation with Steph. I decided at that moment that Charlie would be mine. Sadly, a week later I found out that Charlie was engaged to his high school sweetheart. Even worse, Charlie was a Republican. My morals took over, and I cast aside the dream of even attempting to seduce Charlie, his boyish good looks aside.
But in mid November, Charlie began emailing me frequently. Though friendly at first, the discussions quickly turned to talk Catholic-school-girl fantasies and other sundry improper topics. Quickly realizing that Charlie had led a very sheltered life (his girlfriend didn’t like him to (1) go out; or (2) have any friends), I decided to make him my project. We began going out, spending time together, and I showed him what it was like to have fun.
In late November and early December, we both began preparing for our mock trials – our final exam for the clinic. He was the prosecutor in his trial and I played the part of his star witness. I was the defense attorney in my mock trial and he played the part of my defendant. For the three weeks spent preparing for our trials, we spent hours together each day. On the evening of November 28, 2005, I made the mistake of kissing him.
That mistake would have been bad enough on its own. But of course it didn’t stop there. I had to bring him the Penthouse Boutique. By the first week of December, we were sleeping together. Not one of my better moments.
By the first week in January, I had put an end to the affair. Even though I’d been the seductress, I’d lost respect for him. Even though I was also at fault, I couldn’t deal with someone who was being so dishonest with the woman he was to marry in less than a year’s time.
By the end of January, Charlie began falling behind in his clinic work. His office visits were becoming sporadic. He was missing more classes than he should have been. He was looking tired all the time, which was to be expected: in addition to school, he was working a 30 hour week and commuting almost every day between Hartford and Bridgeport. It was February in Connecticut. I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t looking well.
By the second week of February, Charlie was still looking rather peaked. So I asked him what was wrong. And it was then he dropped the bomb: “I think I have AIDS,” he told me. But why would he think that?
He explained: “At first I thought I had herpes. So I went to a free clinic.”
What did they tell him? Well…
“They told me I didn’t have herpes. But I didn’t believe them, so they gave me Valtrex, which I took. Now I have a flu that I can’t seem to shake. And WebMD says that flu-like symptoms are common in the early stages of AIDS.”
I tried convincing him that he was crazy. It was February. In Connecticut. He was in school full time. He was working too much. His body had been busy fighting a virus he didn’t have (herpes). And while he recognized that he was crazy, he could not be dissuaded regarding his having a fatal disease. So I urged him to get tested. Which he did.
The results? Negative.
You’d that that would be the end. But not. “The incubation period is six months. It wouldn’t show up this early.” I tried to tell him that with his symptoms, he seemed to have skipped HIV and gone straight to AIDS. I tried to tell him his symptoms (or lack thereof) were wholly psychosomatic. I even became enraged, telling him that I didn’t appreciate his perception of me as a diseased slut. He would not be convinced.
Thus, at his urging, I got myself tested, not just for HIV, but for the entire range of STDs.
For an entire two weeks, he bothered me every day. Why weren’t the result back? When would the results come back? I finally got them.
The results? Negative.
Did that end it? Nope. From February until April, he went through the entire list of sexually transmitted diseases he may have. He told his mother the entire story. He visited his regular doctor. When nothing panned out there, he went to a urologist. His guilt about cheating on his fiancé was taking a huge toll on him: he was going insane.
I haven’t heard from him since the beginning of May. He passed the Connecticut bar, and I’m told he got married to the dumb girl. So tragic. And with that experience came a very important lesson: No matter how cute they are, never sleep with a Republican.
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