Here's the deal - I'm not going to make it easy for you. Well, at least no more than I already have by allowing my virus to go unchecked for a year. I'm willing to let top/versatile guys try and take it from me by fucking it out of me. Your load gets mine. Fuck me deep, hard, and long to increase your odds. Bring a buddy along to tag team this toxic hole. Maybe you'll catch it. Maybe he will. Try again. I'm tired of letting my HIV be something I let goodlooking guys treat me like filth over anymore. I see the worth in this weapon I'm carrying around. Men who wouldn't fuck me when I took meds and made absolutely sure to remain undetectable suddenly seem to find an interest in dumping their loads in me. Why is the risk so fucking hot to you? It doesn't make sense to me. But it doesn't have to. I know now that it does, and for that, you gotta fuck this hole like you owe it money. Heading to Portland, OR this weekend, in fact, to lay plans for a birthday gangbang in June. I will be blindfolded, bound, slammed, and open for fucking until all fucking bug chasers have had their shot and shot their load(s) in me. Even then, I bet I could take a little more, not that I'll have much choice. I'll be tied down and unable to stop it anyway. So fuck some AIDS out of me, you sick fucks. Get while the gettin's good.

I can't decide if this is a legitimate request for perspective and knowledge or if it's bait to start what would very easily descend into a very heated argument over stigma and semantics. "Was it worth it?" Was what worth it? Are you asking about the initial transmission of HIV or are you asking if not seeking treatment and allowing HIV to progress unhindered to the point where an AIDS diagnosis is given? Either way, I know I personally wasn't gambling the pleasure of a particular situation against the risk of contracting HIV, and my decision to stop taking antiretroviral therapy was a conscious one made after much deliberation and with full understanding that AIDS was an inevitability if I continued to abstain from meds. It was three-and-a-half months after my 18th birthday that I started dating the man who, as I came to discover much later, intentionally gave me the virus without my knowledge. In the spring of 1993, having enlisted in the US Navy and tested into the nuclear program, I received a call back to MEPC to speak with the Chief Medical Officer, who relayed to me that my tests had come back positive for the HIV virus, and as such, my oath and enlistment were revoked. He told me I wasn't eligible to serve because active military personnel must be able to donate blood to other soldiers or to civilians in times of war. By the time I tracked down my (by then) ex-boyfriend, he had infected 11 other young men and had committed suicide rather than endure the pain of a slow death from AIDS complications. I was surreptitiously infected with HIV so long ago that I have lived more years with the virus than I'd lived without it. All of the important little psychological finishing touches that happen as adolescent males become mature into fully grown adults were shaped by the stigma and shame surrounding my diagnosis. Fast forward 25 years, past two failed suicide attempts and the deaths of most of the friends and acquaintances I'd known from back then. Perhaps you can understand the state of mind I was in when I decided one day to stop taking HIV meds and just let the virus do what it would until the end finally came. An end, I might mention, that I'd been anticipating for most of those 25 years, coming to terms time and time again with the eventual reality of a death much like the agonizing, humiliating one you describe in your post. When you've had that long to ponder such an end, even trying twice to beat Death to the punch, the concept of dying becomes much less frightening. Last January (2017), I had been off of all HIV medications for 4 years. An unfortunate run in with the flu motivated me to visit an Urgent Care, where they discovered my CD4 count was down to only 30. Soon thereafter I developed a case of thrush, which led to another visit with a doctor for the necessary prescription. Thiat time I walked out with an AIDS diagnosis on my medical record and a lengthy scolding from a particularly insightful Infectious Diseases specialist. I wasn't in any pain. I led a normal, active life and had no issues with mobility or cognition. I fed myself maybe too well and never had trouble drinking. Looking at me, no one would have considered it even possible that I had AIDS. But I did. It was in May of last year that I decided I wasn't ready anymore to let the virus have me. I wasn't done with life. There were things I still wanted to do. So I got back on meds and started to rebuild my immune system. It took me being vigilant in taking my medicine every single day for over 7 months to finally get my CD4 count back above the 200 cell threshold, even though the viral load immediately went undetectable. Was what worth it? Considering the fact that I'm no better or worse off today than that naive 19-year-old boy was back in 1993 when he was first diagnosed, I'm having trouble framing the context of your question. Has the stigma beat the shit out of my confidence and self-esteem over the past two-and-a-half decades? You bet your ass it has, at every turn and from every direction. Has the virus won? Not yet, that motherfucker hasn't. I control the virus now, not the other way around. And I'm past the point where ignorance and fear in other folks' reactions can bruise or batter my sense of self-worth. Those ugly flaws are now reflections of their value, not mine. I'm happy to educate and always forthcoming about my status with every potential sex partner I meet. I can't even pass up an oddly worded post in an online discussion forum without taking the time to address the topic of HIV/AIDS. ;-P

I've never taken Viramune, and if it robs you of anal pleasure, I never want to! I used to be on Atripla for what seems like forever, but recently I was switched over to Tivacay & Descovy. My hole is in a constant state of hunger, but it definitely hasn't suffered any loss of sensation. (knock wood!) Glad to hear your ass is back up and running like a well tuned machine, my friend.

Upstairs at The Phoenix is a nice, dark fuck space. Also the Rawhide if you're looking to stay inside the French Quarter. Our local bathhouse shut down a while back (surprised it didn't literally fall to the ground from disrepair). There are often private parties this time of year hosted by locals in and around the Quarter. I don't think Phoenix or Rawhide have a formal clothes check, but you can usually wear as little as you like in those bars year round.