“Oh no, don’t go to the clinic,” a dear friend once told me. “You’ll just convince yourself that you’ve got HIV.” Let’s be real; this is pretty shit advice. You can’t swan through life with your head in the sand, and you can’t sleep around without being aware of what STIs are floating around in your system. Whatever about your own health, it takes two to tango, and you owe it to your fuck buddy to know what you could potentially be passing on to them. Even if you can make your peace with maaayybe having the clap, you really should have the decency to not risk infecting someone else. It’s just not on.

You might read this and think “this doesn’t apply to me, I’d know if I had an STI.” Well, think again, sweaty. Apparently, up to 80% of STIs are asymptomatic, or so I’m told anyway. Don’t quote me on it but do heed it. Go for a check-up, just to be on the safe side, even if it is daunting. Ignorance may be bliss, but it’s still ignorance, and selfish as well. It’s really not that much hassle to go; clinics are super accessible, you can even get screened in college! Plus, it’s not like it’s going to break the bank.

I won’t lie, I’m no angel when it comes to awareness either. All summer long I meant to get checked, but never got around to it. I just kept putting it off, telling myself it wasn’t all that important, that I was definitely in the clear anyway. Then I brought a cute French boy home and let him bareback me, and let me tell you, that put the skids under me. You better believe that the following Monday I was up in that free clinic on Baggot Street.

Let me tell you, that trip was an experience. I swanned in there with all the self-assuredness I could muster as an adult going about his business, which was steadily bled out of me the longer I sat waiting in a bleak room with several other nonplussed homosexuals. I had absolutely underestimated how busy it would be, and having to register as a first time visitor only slowed me down further. As minutes dragged into hours, my confidence slipped and I had to acknowledge that my friend was right; by the time I was called in for my rapid HIV test, I was sure it was coming back positive.

While that potential time-bomb was ticking, I returned to purgatory, before being summoned for the rest of my examination. The nurse was lovely, perfectly understanding, comforting, no judgement at all, even as I revealed how clueless I was. No, I hadn’t used a condom. No, I hadn’t gone to an A&E to get PEP within three days. No, I wasn’t aware that was an option. To her credit, she never made me feel like an idiot, even though I absolutely was. She just went about her business, taking my bloods and a swab from my throat. They let you take the rectal swab yourself though, thank God. That and pissing into a cup – that’s also on you.

By the time I’d dropped my samples to the nurse, the results of my HIV test had come back. I didn’t think my nerves were ready, but it came back as a big fat negative. Lit, but only fleetingly. Did you know that HIV can take up to FOUR weeks to show up in your system? Because I sure as fuck did not. Hepatitis can take up to EIGHT. The audacity. I was going to have to come back in a month’s time, and preferably again a month after that. The icing on a draining, worrying, possibly-STI-riddled cake.

Walking back along Baggot Street, I couldn’t help but masochistically imagine my life post-diagnosis. Imagine having to ask your dad if his public sector health insurance plan covered that. Not fun. I was spooked, to say the least, not to mention starving after spending hours in the Dentist’s Waiting Room 2.0 with all the other sexually responsible gays.

Though as I walked, I came to realise that my day really hadn’t been so bad. Sure, it was tedious, but that was my own fault for not charging my phone, and next time I wouldn’t have the added detour of registering. The nurses were all so professional and made me feel like I was in safe hands (even when I was shoving a stick up my own ass unsupervised). A pleasant ordeal? I wouldn’t go that far, but did I really mind going back twice more? No, I decided, I didn’t. With the benefit of hindsight I could see that I’d only found it so harrowing because of first-time nerves. What I really needed was to get a fat grip on myself, and in the meantime just sit tight and wait for a text (and hopefully not a call) with my results a week later.

An enjoyable afternoon? No. A terrible afternoon? No, not really. A necessary afternoon? Absolutely.

(For those interested, I’m in the clear. Stunning.)

 

Trinity offer an STI clinic Wednesdays at 9.30 – 11.30 and 1.30 – 3.30. Booking is made with reception at the Health Clinic. You must pay €20 when booking, with €5 given back to you when you attend your appointment.