Tabú

El Doctor A, acompañado por la enfermera J, le da las malas noticias. Y ninguno de los tres siente gran cosa.

Llega a casa. Abre, se escurre y cierra la puerta; deja la bolsa en el rellano y se está meando un poco pero no mea... gira a la derecha y se va directa... tiene prisa por sentarse en el comedor y quedarse mirando la pared frente al sillón.

El mueble del comedor es como una tortilla desestructurada; módulos de madera oscura barnizadísima y tiradores de hierro negros, y ese aire a moderno cuando no lo es... Ella resopla y piensa:

"Lo peor es el mueble bar".

... Y eso que le sirve para guardar los frutos secos; John le diría: “Eres una puta desagradecida; no aprecias lo que tienes”… pero como John no está, pues no se lo dice.

Por primera vez se fija de verdad en los libros de la casera, sobre el mueble bar; muchos primeros tomos de muchas colecciones diferentes que ni se pudiera decir mutiladas; no les faltan uno o dos, sino los once o veintitrés tomos que debieran haber seguido al gratuito.

“La Enciclopedia de la Salud (A – Antebrazo)”… y si te entra algo malo con la “z” mejor te mueres.

“Enciclopedia de Historia Universal (1 – Los Orígenes)”… bueno, a partir ahí es como que no interesa, ¿no?

Ningún segundo tomo, y ningún tercero y así hasta el infinito, pero ello sólo lo piensa un rato… Y entonces deja caer la cabeza hacia atrás, y se queda mirando un trozo del techo estucado, y rendirse es un alivio.

Y el pensamiento toma forma:

"¿Y si dejara la bolsa en el rellano para siempre?".

... Pero no, decide que no lo va a hacer, y el porqué (el secreto) está en la salsa. Y más concretamente en el bote de salsa cinco quesos que hay en la bolsa del rellano; si la bolsa hubiera tenido el detergente de ayer o el kilo de manzanas de anteayer, entonces sí, quizás éste sería el momento; pero en la bolsa hay un bote de salsa cinco quesos, y es que le encanta. No lo va a hacer, y el secreto está en la salsa... y por fin, algo desafiante, habla:

–Pero que quede claro que podría, ¿ok?

En la cola

Por Alá, cuánta gente. Me he vuelto a equivocar. ¿Me voy al otro lado? No... De lejos te parece que no hay mucha gente, pero cuando estás a punto de llegar, se llena. Ya viene la chica a abrir la otra caja. «Oye, ¿pasas tú?»; «No, no; yo me quedo aquí. Gracias».
Me ha puesto mala cara. No sé por qué. Le he dicho gracias. Me ha preguntado muy alto. Sé que tenemos mala fama. De maleducadas, sobre todo. De perras, también. Como si esperar en una cola, a la española, fuera algo a aprender y venerar.
Mi cola no se mueve. Quizás debería haberme ido a la otra. El cajero es lento, pero simpático. La gente se impacienta y chasquea la lengua y suspira. Veo de reojo a las chicas que tengo detrás; están haciendo muecas; creo que piensan que huelo mal, a curry. No huelo mal. Quizás debería decírselo, pero no me atrevo, o no me apetece.
Me quedo mirando hacia fuera, hacia las puertas de cristal, y auque soy consciente de que estoy en el supermercado, y aunque de vez en cuando me muevo unos centímetros, empujando la cesta con el pie, entro en trance. Me resulta fácil. Una cola lenta y una vista de la calle es todo lo que necesito. He hecho muchas colas desde que llegué aquí. Entro en trance y me olvido de los chasquidos y las voces bajas y las narices arrugadas. El médico me ofreció pastillas pero yo le dije que no. Me dan un poco de miedo. Pero como puedo entrar en trance... A veces, esperando, la gente es amable y me cuesta responder, pero es porque estoy en trance, no es porque sea una puta desagradecida.
La basura se arremolina a la entrada; está a punto de diluviar otra vez. He cogido el paraguas, menos mal. Cuando salí de casa hacía buen día. La amenaza de lluvia une a la gente; la gente mira el cielo negro que se avecina y luego se miran entre sí, a los ojos; completos desconocidos que se miran y sonríen.
A la gente no le gusta el cajero. Además de un poco lento, es un poco feo. A mí me cae bien. Me gustaría hablar algo más con él... no sé... quizás contarle lo que me acaba de pasar... explicarle lo que son los CD4... y la carga viral...

La otra cola está parada. Les adelantamos. He hecho bien en quedarme. Ya me toca.

Karen

Sabe que no se lo debería tragar, pero es que le gusta. Acaban y él le dice: «Oye, ¿no es peligroso?». Ella le dice que no tanto, que peor es juguetear con él… que si lo escupes, que si no... Ya le ha pasado antes; al principio el riesgo les da igual, pero una vez hecho, entonces sí; entonces ya no quieren estar con alguien así, entonces quieren a la que no hace eso. Ella se siente mal, porque le gusta el chico; le acaba de conocer pero le gusta tanto que le duele. Pero sabe que son dos mundos incompatibles. O tragas o enamoras. Así que opta por tragar. No debiera, pero es lo que hay.

Ele

Me aburre tanto el 69… y por defecto, la gente que lo orquesta, como si hubiera algo que orquestar; esa gente que se cree pionera y salvaje en el sexo… que no es que yo lo sea... o que sea bueno serlo... pero al menos no me gusta el 69.

Yo cuando veo que alguien quiere hacer el 69, es que le pierdo el respeto. No lo puedo evitar.

Qué momento tan horrible: estás tan tranquilo haciendo lo que sea, sexualmente hablando, lo que sea, cuando de repente él (por decir algo) te pone una mano en las costillas y la otra en la zona michelínica… parece ser que quiere maniobrar… parece ser que quiere que te muevas… sí, eso está claro... con lo a gusto que estabas... tú te pones a ello: te mueves a un lado y a otro, pero parece ser que no aciertas, porque él sigue presionando en la zona michelínica, tan sensible al roce…

...derecha, izquierda, nordeste… ¿cómo quiere que me ponga?... ¿le pregunto?... no puedo aguantar más la respiración, y quizás es por puro instinto de supervivencia que por fin se enciende la bombilla: ¡quiere me ponga en postura de 69!

Oh, my, God.

Yo, que quede claro, me posiciono… y, eso sí, desenchufo. No quiero vivir lo que se me avecina.

El 69 es una postura utópica; es el cuento de nunca encajar… Es que no somos números… él (por decir algo) no es un 6, y menos aún un 6 al revés. Si tú te aplicas como es debido, entonces él no se puede aplicar como es debido, porque, sencillamente, es que él no consigue aterrizar sobre la H (tragicamente, se queda corto o se pasa), o llega tan malamente que no merece la pena: no sientes nada, o, peor, te hace daño, por lo general por el efecto Pantoja —“dientes, dientes”—. Y no hay nada peor que “dientes, dientes"; eso lo sabe cualquiera.

Y viceversa. Ni él ni tú lo hacéis bien a menos que os acabéis turnando, con lo cual, ¿para qué? Para eso nos quedamos como estábamos.

Qué fatiga.

¿Y qué es lo quiero entonces, yo personalmente, y sexualmente hablando?… Porque si no me gusta el 69… ¿Algo me gustará, no? Pues claro, que no soy de piedra, ni un tiquis-miquis...

Quiero una cosa más que ninguna otra en el mundo; pero voy a utilizar la inicial de esa cosa, porque me da un poco de vergüenza decir la cosa en sí misma.

Yo, quiero:

L.

Neither this, nor the opposite... and a bit of both

Sometimes it’s not like I want to die, but it’s not like I want to live either. Like with other people I’ve read about, this tends to happen at night. Maybe the day when this finally happens during the day… well that will be the day. It's night time now. What a surprise.

I am simply not happy with anything. I have no realistic dreams; the only things I still think I would be happy with, are things that are just never going to happen, like winning the lottery, like getting rid of the retrovirus… I don’t know... maybe if I made an effort to save money and rented a place and filled it with IKEA furniture, maybe that would be it; but even that, even everything, feels as impossible as winning the lottery.

I'm sorry, but life sometimes is a piece of unadulterated shit. What I would give to be Mary Fucking Poppins. She was just great at night time. All that singing and all those chimneys. Mary Fucking Poppins really knew what she was doing. Can't sleep? Nevermind, just get to some roof with a few friends a fair few coordinated strangers and start singing and dancing. That's all. No real thinking involved. Fumes are good.

I care about nothing. Not even about myself. I am just a burden to myself. Always unhappy, always unsatisfied, always regretting, always longing for that past I used to hate, as if I hadn’t hated it, not caring much about the fact that some of the things I have now are the things I used to be so unhappy I didn’t have… always wanting what I haven’t got. And, of course, the fact that this whole thing is actually so ordinary, so unimpressive, so non-unique, only makes it worse. So very non-unique in adversity.

The morning comes and it’s not like nothing's happened, but it's not like anything's changed either. I think about cutting my hair, and I quickly make it my business to include it in my to do list for the day. I'm a little desperate today, a little edgy; but edgy, in some ways, helps; I've sensed today's not the day to ignore points in my list; today's a day to tick. To tick whatever. It's the ticking that matters. Ticking may be, in the end, the thing that saves me. It's tangible. It's tick or die. It's so fucking satisfying.

And so I cut my hair, with my father's clippers. In case you wonder, I do do the whole thing myself. How do I do the back bit? Well, just holding a hand mirror in front of my face whilst a larger mirror lies behind me, and twisting my arm and wrist and whole upper body fairly inhumanly. I like cutting my hair. It's better than having it cut anywhere I've lived... the hairdresser's: feeling ever so pathetic whilst you look at yourself in the mirror and feel weird for an eternity... subtly changing faces —you don’t want to look vain or silly, but you don’t want to look so consistently ugly either, so subtle face changes are on—… putting that eternally grateful face when the oh so skilful hairdresser holds the mirror so you can look at your own back of the neck, which is looking oh so wonderful.

I usually feel handsome after I cut my hair; though, in my defence, only for four to five days tops; after that, it’s downhill to Ugly Planet; the temples, greyer than the other bits, worry me particularly; grey hair, out of the just-cut look, is just plain ugly; I used to do the whole dyeing thing, but I don't now. That phase is over.

And now, simply, it’s night time again.

Mother of God. Will you do something?

Experience # 2: The rectoscopy

Sorry if you find this unpleasant, but I want to say this: I have had a proctoscopy or two (I still like to keep it casual). In case you don’t know what it is exactly:

"Proctoscopy is a common medical procedure in which an instrument called a proctoscope (also known as a rectoscope) is used to examine the anal cavity, rectum or sigmoid colon. A proctoscope is a short (10in or 25 cm long), straight, rigid, hollow metal tube, and usually has a small light bulb mounted at the end. During proctoscopy, the proctoscope is lubricated and inserted into the rectum, and then the obturator is removed, allowing an unobstructed view of the interior of the rectal cavity. This procedure is normally done to…"

Why do they call 10in (or 25 cm) “short”?… I know colonospy tubes and similar instruments are much longer, but they are narrow and flexible, not “straight and rigid and hollow (... so I am being penetrated by it but it has nothing inside?) and metal (have this people heard about life-imitating latex or silicon?; this whole procedure could be a lot nicer!)”.

Proctoscopies are not nice… kind of like root canal work or penis swabs… not that terrible, objectively and physically and generally speaking, but so very damaging psychologically… after my last one I felt I had to go into the Bhs restaurant and have a cream tea... in my mind it was the only thing that seemed have to have the potential to sedate me.

But for me the worst thing is not that during the whole process I am terrified of not being squeaky clean in there (I am very rectum-proud), but rather that terrible predicament you find yourself in once it is almost all over and, having the doctors initially put a truckload of KY into that moist but not slippery cavity, you are given one, I repeat one, wafer-thin Kleenex to clean all the allegedly excess lubricant.

I don’t know… maybe I am just missing the point… Maybe the clinic has a policy of leaving you all lubricated for whatever may happen later: why take it off if you’re going to put it on/in again. Still, it’s a very odd situatior; for starters, you don’t want to put the wipe to proper use (or indeed ask for more paper with that very target in mind) in front of the customary doctor and nurse, who are normally still there, talking to you and writing things and maybe feeling like shit. After what’s just happened, I always feel that what little dignity I have left I would like to keep; to me, that means no proper wiping in front of sentient beings… and yet again the fact is: there’s always ten times more KY than the one Kleenex could ever absorb. So what do you do?: you reluctantly use what you are reluctantly given (no need to be impolite either), very casually of course, like you don’t need to, with head well high, and after the one swift and almost accidental swipe you use all your arm strength to bomb-drop some bin. And then you fly, fly, fly --literally, silkily, soothingly, effortlessly and, after the first step, incontrolably-- lubricated to death, to the nearest toilet with adequate paper supplies and you clean yourself like god intended: strenuously and alone.

But it's impossible to it take all away... And so for the rest of the day you feel kind of diluted, kind of like a runny sauce; kind of slippery and kind of whorish; kind of shit and kind of oily. Kind of like a KY-filled Kinder Surprise. Hello kiddies!

Then there is the position you have to be in for this sort of anal procedures. I am just going to say it: the fetal position. I find the fetal position is inherently humiliating… I guess is because I am not a fetus anymore? I am 31 for god’s sake. And I love how they always prepare you at least 10 minutes before the doctor arrives by telling you to undress and lay on some extremely narrow and feeble-looking bed in the fetal position... I think: couldn’t we do it once the doc arrives and there is a point to it? I mean, he's hardly going to cross the door, run my (back)side and impale me, is he? He'll take some time, I'm sure... Enough for me to undress and get into the fetal position? You bet!

I don't want to be naked and in the fetal position whilst alone; it's just not something one does on one's own... Surely so much efficiency is not required... But, like at the dentist, I do not contradict a nurse who could grass me up to a doctor as a difficult patient, a doctor who will later be yielding a rectoscope. No. In my proctoscopy appointments I always notice I am at my most meek, a sort of pathetic-meek, wronged-woman-type meek… And so, if in preparation for the doctor, the nurse asked me to quietly dance some flamenco while in the fetal position, I would at least try.

Being gay is possibly the final point of contention… As the rectoscope is pushed up my rectum, logically, in the usual non-sexy medical way, I feel anxious that my straight doctor and nurse (who, not being headless, know I am gay) could think that I may be enjoying the whole thing… you know… because I am gay, therefore I must enjoy having a long, hard and wide thing in my rectum (but remember: it's hollow!), a thing which, it is worth noting, is twisted and pulled backwards and forwards (once it's in, they say it’s just backwards, not forwards, and therefore make you feel like you are having some sort of a rectum hallucination). Or maybe it's quite the opposite, and on the same logical lines and judging from my distorted face (due to the procedure in hand), they think I'm not enjoying it when I should... What a pathetic excuse for a gay guy you are… Pull yourself together and enjoy… I am doing my best here, you know! Maybe that’s it: I am supposed to enjoy the rapeoscopy.

But the truth is that above all I feel embarrassed to be involved in the cliché: gay and with a thing up his arse. It makes me feel like I deserve it. This is what happens when you get the retrovirus… other people may need this procedure, but really you need it because of this, you filthy retro carrier… I deserve being 31 and in the fetal position, naked in the feeble and narrow bed, listening to all footsteps and voices near the door (like there’s anything else to do, apart from adjusting the angle of your fetal position, in the very vain hope that you may look good in it), hoping that it’s your doctor already and praying not for a worldwide shortage of KY (the KY really helps) but for an orgy of Kleenex for after, for when it's all over.

Work

I, I, I… I am 31 and I haven’t got a job at the moment; it’s been two months; and although it feels quite bad, the truth is that I sort of don’t want one anymore (finally, I’ve said it)… I don’t want a job… don’t want it, thanks.

Now, since I don’t want to work and I am not working, one could think I have achieved it all… I’ve got it all, yes: the looks (not true), the family (not true), the brains (not true), the retrovirus (not complaining), a comfortable 14-year-old-style room in my parents house with two cork boards where I pin things in a pseudo artistic fashion and, best of all, I have the non-job of a lifetime... But no, of course life is not so simple: I want to be jobless for ever... for e-v-e-r (now, in the world of the non-job-worker that’s what one calls an ambitious career objective), and not having a job for long, nevermind for ever, whilst retaining your dignity and making others believe that you have dignity, well that is very difficult…

In any case, there is a much bigger problem than dignity here: I want to have money, so much money as for generosity mixed with financial carelessness to become my stand-by mode… I, I, I am chewing the very last bite of our (I’m with somebody in my fantasy) minimalist and therefore non-fattening (I am also super fit: lots of yoga and a personal trainer) luxury hotel meal, and I am already distractedly looking for the waiter: I want them to start getting the bill sorted… no time to wait, grieve, regret, get resentful, feel guilt or start talking about how broke I am and so suddenly feel... I want to pay and go, but I am not even thinking about it; I’m distracted… Why worry?... I have so much money to spend that spending it has become my stand-by mode (I repeat).

It’s not that I don’t have career dreams (the sort that could make you earn money… maybe not enough to have a personal trainer, but enough not to live with your parents at 31... I actually sometimes say that I live at my sister’s because I must obviously think it less humiliating), it’s just that I don’t want to do what it takes to follow them through... and I know, that sounds pretty ordinary and therefore makes me even more pathetic… well, what did you expect?

I am looking for a job though; I feel I should. Sometimes the pressure of not having one is unbearable, and the constant CV sending and form-filling becomes a job in itself, it becomes something that resembles the oldest job in the world: you are like a job-market prostitute, and in my case a bad one… no body fucking wants me (the bastards); and that’s the stage I call the non-job; you are not exactly jobless; you have a non-job... it’s a really bad situation to be in: you are no longer in the wonderful period (lasts about two days) where you’ve just left your previous job and daytime television seems entertaining, something that the rest of the world, like you two days ago, is missing, but not you, you’re especial: you deserve daytime television.. you deserve Trisha. But loving Trisha is an experience that was not meant to last. You are now in the terrible period where you have to sell yourself… and you have to lie so much: lies are demanded of you, but not at all expected… isn't the world crazy… like when they ask you what you think you could bring into that job you're applying to… real non-uttered answer: a physical mass that by its very undeniable presence in this shit office will earn me (and more specifically the intellectual mass that hopes never to set foot here, in the shit office with the shit people and the shit atmosphere) a bit of money. Real uttered answer: well (modesty) I think (modesty) I am quite (modesty) a truly wonderfully fantastic person and that I am absolutely necessary for your oh-I’ve-always-so-wanted-to-work-here business... bla, bla, driven, bla, perfectionist (one of my three official defects)... bla, impatient (another one of the three), bla...

Sorry, I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I am determined in this. But what will I do instead? Will my friends and family stick by me when they see this is not a phase, or when they see me running away from this... and that... from the present, and the past, and a reasonable future?

I know who’ll stick by me (sorry, but I either change this blog’s name to "Simply ME" or I have to throw it in somehow... not that you care, of course): the incomparable, the truly wonderful, the mysterious, the old faithfull… the one and only... the retrovirus.

Retro SM

Sm is funny.

I know, just a little, what I am talking about, because I very much have been putting into perverted practice, for about five years now, the sm tendencies I've had for longer than five years.

So, funny... funny how?

Well, I have to say first that it really depends on what kind of slave/pig/sub you are (and you know, in this world of sm, there actually are purists out there who would be outraged that I should be lumping all these very differentiated categories of a masochist together... how dare I? Sorry SIR (notice the capitals, SIR, please...), maybe I deserve a spanking, but just maybe... (... a masochist, for the uninitiated, has to kind of look like they lack initiave... you don't suggest; you can't boss the Boss around, obviously).
"A slave is oh so different from a pig!", the purists say; I say no (sorry SIRS)... we gay masochists are all gay masochists for one reason, and that reason unifies us all different sub-types: we want to be with a man (this sounds voracious, I know), because we are gay and not heterosexual (clever me), and it's difficult to find someone we see as a man, because the men we have sex with are gay too and not heterosexual, so we choose to go with gay masters/doms/tops, who can sometimes look more like men... and so, to many of us, this is how we can be with a man, by being with someone who, by looking like a extreme version of one, looks like he actually is one, all this in theory (in practice, I never learnt so much about opera until I started meeting masters/doms/tops... -thank You for the Caballé compilation, Sir Chris-; and not that I should consider opera not manly in any way whatsoever; let that be crystal clear).

Ok, so there are the kinds of slaves/pigs/subs who want to completely surrender, all the time, 24/7... I don't think they find sm funny; these are the type of slaves for whom sm is a religion, they need a master to complete them, to own them, etc...
... and then there are those (the majority), who just want to be dominated for a little while, during sex basically, and that's when sm is funny.

So again... funny how... what do i -notice the lower case, please, SIR- mean funny?

Come on it's common sense: it's just that suddenly you stop being turned on during a sex "session" (that's how they Sirs call them, "sessions") and you find yourself doing the most weird things... and in this sm world this thing of stopping being turned on happens a lot, because of the nature of sm, where you are often tied up or maybe even, dare I say it, mummified (uninitiated person: don't ask), situations in which you just have a lot of time to get just a tad bored; and you often get these masters who want long sessions and at some point during the session you go from being turned on by the idea of, let's say, being mummified (still, don't ask), and by the first five minutes of it actually happening (this practice is really quite nice actually; it's kind of like being pampered at the Tutankamon Spa), TO getting oh so bored with it; then you float just a little outside of your body (you are after all mummified and cannot move, so floating vivaciously is out of the question)... and then that's it; you don't see yourself mummified anymore, you see things a lot more literally, and that's a no no in sm sex... what the fuck... why do I have Tesco's cling film (because suddenly the brand matters) so tightly wrapped all around my body... or simply... I'm so bored, I want to move... my right hand at least; I'm itchy (and Scratchy...)... And that, in retrospect and in a wrapped nutshell, is the kind of thing I find funny about sm.

And yes, here I retro come: I put it all down, my masochistic practices that is, to the retrovirus... you may be thinking that I just have self-destructing tendencies and that that's why I got the retrovirus in the first place, bla, bla, bla... could be, I'm not into denying the obvious... but all I know is that until I went retro, I wasn't quite into this. The tendencies were in me before the retrovirus was, but I think that having the retrovirus made me feel more extreme... like I don't want to leave any obscure tendency untouched, but rather I want all these tendencies to be out there... the retrovirus has taken up my insides and pushed my masochistic tendencies out; maybe that sounds pathetic, well not maybe, it does sound pathetic, but what do you expect from a would-be-slave-for-five-minutes-(-until-you-ejaculate-in-my-face-...-soon-please-my-knees-hurt-) person...

... and anyway, this is my retro story and I am sticking to it.

Experience # 1: The retrovirus and me, on a retro date...

I, I, I...

I am hiv+.

And, more especifically...

... yesterday (fake date), just like that, I forced myself to go on a blind date...
it was my first blind date in years, literally, and it was with another hiv+ positive man… it happened in Barcelona, which is my city now and for now.

It was kind of good, as it was slightly exciting (and nerve-wrecking to the point of anoying: "Why am i putting myself through this? Why am I meeting someone I felt like meeting yesterday at 0:02 but not at all today at 18:30?");... other positives: I felt I like was out there (like the truth on The X Files), alive, and last and actually least, he was a really, really nice guy… but...

... it was a little bit depressing too: inevitably, we ended up talking about hospital experiences, and the words "meds", "fungal" and "sarcoma" came up with enough frequency for romance to not quite take off (and yesterday I wanted romance... when I asked for an orange juice --"look at me I'm so healthy and sporty, I drink orange juice constantly"--, I knew I wanted romance... fresh romance); we were not exactly doing what I saw actors and actresses doing on first dates in all those idealised movies… There was no fungal talk in those movies; a headache at best; never anything as ugly as infected toenails, or truly deathly/chronic like hiv.

It was bound not to work, especially since it was a calculated encounter, a calculated romance; how clever... and so, ok, it didn’t work.
But I tried. And I may try again. I am defiant in defeat. Because you see...

... I want to be out there like the truth on The X Files, and get my heart trampled on (I think).

What are my chances of this happening:

1) I either meet somebody by chance in, let's say, the bakery or the library, hit it off, then later “confess” my hiv status and hope for the best (no rejection of any sort on his part... on my part, well: no self-rejection, not feeling like I cannot keep putting on that childish I-haven't-broken-a-plate-in-my-life face, which I like and have to use on first dates; why shouldn't I be able to put the face then? The little demon says: Because now he knows you have the retrovirus, so he know you have broken a few plates you filthy slut), or...

2) I “calculate” a meeting with someone I don’t have to make so much of a confession to because he knows I'm positive before I meet him (the internet helps with this... a sharp scratch and it's done: you're exposed to a total stranger... fantastic!)... He could be hiv-, or we could both be hiv+ (how retro)... or...

3) I lie/don't metion anything about the retrovirus ever, ever, ever (I'd have to hide the pills and make sure I've got fake not-sexually-transmitted conditions for that chance encounter at the hospital... I have done this in the past and I do not, I repeat I do not, recommend it)... And yeah, I know: being dishonest is ultimately a no no in a relationship... or...

4) I remain single for the rest of my life, which is completely ok and probably better.

I will be honest: if the confession bit was not part of the picture, because I don't like that bit, then the bakery situation would be my first choice: romance, a chance encounter, all very casual because I am so cool, calm... and generally hungry.

And the sad thing is that, seriously, not so deep inside, I want this, I want it very much, depending on the day and the time of the day, of course.

So I am off to the panadería to buy a napolitana, and the retrovirus is coming with me, because, like or not, he has to be fed.