The Craigslist Killer Part 4
© 2014 by Nom de Plume

I lay there in stunned silence, my death sentence ringing in my ears. “I have H.I.V,” Ron just told me. How many times had I warned myself about the dangers of dating on Craigslist? How many guys had I blown off because of the teeniest suspicion that they might not be safe?

How much time did I have?

I bolted out of bed and raced into the bathroom. There was a bidet next to the toilet, and I turned it up full blast and squatted over it, hoping and praying that the jet of ice cold water would somehow cleanse me. The water gradually warmed up, and I played with the controls, keeping it as hot as I could physical stand it, for what seemed like an eternity. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I dried myself off, wrapped the bathrobe around myself, and returned to the bedroom.

Ron was curled up in the fetal position, softly sobbing, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.” He looked so pitiful, I actually felt sorry for him, in spite of what he’d done to me. After all, I’d been the aggressor, forcing myself on him before he could stop me….

I sat down next to him. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“I never wanted to have sex with you, Missy. I just wanted to dress up with you, to be your girlfriend,” he sniffled. “But you were so beautiful…even then, I didn’t think I could, and I didn’t know you were going to, before it was too late. And then…God, it felt so damn good! And it’s been so damn long…but I could have stopped you. I’m so sorry. You trusted me,” he sobbed, “and I should have told you from the very beginning.”

“How long have you had H.I.V.?”

“I found out just over a year ago. Right before my divorce.”

“Did your wife catch it too?”

“No, thank God. That was a whole other nightmare. But she’s been tested several times, and she’s okay.”

A glimmer of hope for me? “How can I get tested?”

“You have to wait at least a month before taking the test to be sure.”

Just what I needed to hear! I’d be in agony till I found out, and if the test results were bad, I’d be a dead man. “How are you doing with it?” I had to ask.

“You mean physically? I’m on a shitload of ridiculously expensive drugs, a cocktail they call it, but so far so good. With any luck, I’ll hang in there like Magic Johnson. But that’s not the hard part.”

“What could be worse?” I asked bitterly.

“The mental part. Trying to live a normal life in front of my son. Trying to meet new people, and not have them run for their lives when they find out. I’d totally given up on having a sex life, until….”

“Until idiot me!” All of a sudden I was mad, steaming. It was like the seven stages of grief were playing out at warp speed. I was sick to my stomach…sick of pretending to be a woman…sick of Ron…sick of my entire fucking life…I staggered back to the bathroom and was violently sick.

I kneeled, naked, on the cold marble floor, retching my guts out. When I was finally done, I walked forlornly back to the bedroom. Ron was nowhere to be seen. In despair, I hurled my wig across the room, threw myself into bed, and collapsed into a restive sleep.

* * *

The next morning, I was up early. I’d slept in my makeup, so my first project was to scrub my face clean, get the polish off my nails, and take a long, hot shower. Then I put on a turtleneck and khakis, and hurriedly stuffed Missy’s suitcase full of all of my women’s clothing and miscellaneous female accessories. I used my cellphone to summon a cab, walked downstairs, and quietly let myself out. There was no sign of Ron.

I told the cabbie to take me to the Intercontinental. Rooms were available, and as soon as I checked in, I walked over to a nearby FEDEX office. They were just opening, and I used a personal credit card to send Missy’s suitcase to my home in Los Angeles. Then it was back to my room, where I ordered a hot breakfast from room service, and spent the rest of the morning scouring the Internet for anything I could find about H.I.V., gay sex, and AIDS.

After several hours of research, I was feeling a little better. Although I was certainly in a high risk category, it was by no means certain that I was infected. The douching I’d instinctively performed moments after having sex with Ron was a definite plus, and there’d been no blood that I could see after my anal intercourse with him. He was on the small side (which is always better as far as I’m concerned) and cut, which also helped. I’d have to wait 30 days before testing myself for the AIDS virus, and I had no idea how I was going to make it that long without losing my sanity, but there was some hope for me.

My other problems paled in comparison, including the manhunt for me by the Chicago police. Checking back into the Intercontinental had been a simple act of misdirection: I reasoned that they’d be unlikely to look for me here, and if they did find me, it would be easier to feign innocence. I’d just lay low through the weekend – the weather was miserable, a wintry mix of rain, sleet and snow, and my luxury room seemed like a pretty safe refuge.

My thoughts turned to Ron. I know it must seem strange, but I was not angry with him. If anything, I felt sorry for him. He was living the nightmare that I feared for myself, with no good outcome. At least he was rich enough to afford the best of medical care, including that cocktail of drugs he told me about. After reading about the medical advances against AIDS that morning, I reasoned that he had a shot at a reasonably decent life, but that wasn’t the life I wanted for me.

* * *

The week before Christmas, back in Los Angeles, I steeled myself as I opened my post office box. There it was, an envelope from the community health organization I’d gone to anonymously a month after my return from Chicago. After an awkward wait in a nasty lobby full of godforsaken men and women, where I filled out a form using a bogus name with my PO box as my address, the H.I.V. test itself was mercifully quick: a quick swab of the roof of my mouth, and I was officially in limbo.

The past 30 days had been like something out of the Twilight Zone. Every time I sneezed, or scratched an itch, I was certain that I was dying of AIDS. Some of my time was put to good use: for the first time in my life, I prepared a will (leaving everything to my ex-wife after a sizeable bequest to my college) and my diet improved, as if by eating right I might ward off the deadly virus. At the office, I threw myself into a miserable project that everyone had been avoiding, earning huge brownie points for my long hours and manic compulsion to finish it. When I returned to my condo late every night, I spent hours tossing and turning, dreaming fitfully about how I was going to spend the few good months remaining before my body was racked by disease.

And I exchanged countless emails with Ron. He’d left me alone while I was in Chicago, but when I got back home I was greeted by the first of many, many messages of apology and encouragement. Having already lived through my nightmare, he was well aware of what I was going through, and his words of support kept me going. In return, I offered him endless tips on how to improve his female fashion sense (“try that black top with a long skirt, black is slimming”) and received dozens of pictures in reply. By the end of the month, he was looking more and more presentable as a biggish, handsome woman, of which there are very many in Chicago – the City of Broad Shoulders has the same gene pool for both sexes.

Missy, meanwhile, had gone cold turkey. I hadn’t even opened her suitcase since FEDEX delivered it. Normally, I was manic about laundering her undies, mounting her wig on a Styrofoam head, and the like. I suppose part of me was denying that I was ever going to dress up as a woman again, and part of me was acknowledging the likely end of my wild sex life. At least I’d had my moments, climaxing in my best ever orgasm with a total stranger from Craigslist, I reminded myself ruefully again and again.

And so my moment of truth finally came, and once I returned to my car in the post office parking lot, I tore open the envelope with trepidation. There was a lot of mumbo-jumbo as I raced through the form, until I found the magic word I’d been praying for: NEGATIVE. I didn’t have H.I.V.! I wasn’t doomed to a horrible death from AIDS! I’d rolled the dice, had unprotected sex with an H.I.V. case, and would live to tell the tale!

I know it must sound callous for me to refer to Ron that way, but one of the things I’d developed over the past month was a gallows sense of humor, which Ron shared. I’d promised him that I’d let him know if he infected me, so I punched his number into my car’s hands-free on the drive back home. “Hi Missy,” he answered.

“Good news, baby. You didn’t kill me.”

“You mean you got your test results?”

“Yep. I’m a negative.”

“Thank God!” I could tell from Ron’s voice that he was genuinely happy for me. “What a load off,” he continued. “I’ve been so worried about you….”

“Listen, Ron, I know you felt guilty about not telling me, but you’re off the hook. No harm, no foul, big boy.” I felt a pang of sadness for him. “If only you were so lucky….” I could tell that he was starting to cry, so I got off the phone as quickly as I could.

I turned on the radio, and every station seemed to be playing Christmas carols. In my angst over my condition, I hadn’t even allowed myself to think about the Holidays, and now that I had my life back, it was too late. My ex-wife was headed back east for a gathering of her extended family (a ritual I always loathed) and my own side of the family was dysfunctional, to say the least.

Maybe I’ll go somewhere, I mused as I pulled into my garage. Hawaii? Europe? I was pondering the pros and cons as I switched on my PC, to find this email from Ron:

Missy, You have no idea how happy I’m feeling right now, knowing that the biggest mistake of my life (well, make that the second biggest LOL) didn’t hurt you. I think you told me several weeks ago that you were making no plans for the Holidays, so I’m taking a chance and attaching a little present – let me know if you can come, I’d love to see you! Ron

Attached was a first class airline ticket to Chicago, departing Christmas Eve and returning New Year’s Day.