The Craigslist Killer Part Three
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The Craigslist Killer Part Four free porn video
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.
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