As a kid, I always liked getting sick. It meant I could stay home from school, and the symptoms gave me a masochistic pleasure. I loved colds, I loved allergies, I loved sinus infections. Eventually I graduated to pneumonia, bronchitis, even the flu. Most curious of all, however, is that I would purposely spread this perpetual disease of mine, in meanspirited pranks and typical childhood mischief. I would spit into my friends’ food when they weren’t looking, and watch in sadistic joy as they degenerated into sharing my symptoms. I didn’t grow out of this phase either. As I came of age, I discovered the apex predator of the germ kingdom. AIDS. Incurable. Untreatable. Unsurvivable. While most adolescents rush to lose their virginity as soon as possible, I rushed to get pozzed.
When I was 17, I attended a party at a local fraternity. In a grueling marathon of gay sex fueled by weed and liquor, my ass had accrued seventeen different sperm samples. By the end of the night, a cocktail of different HIV strains was stewing in my bowels. A handsome Latino twunk named Adam pumped me full of his seed ten times over. A broad-shouldered man with a chest full of hair named Sergei made me swallow eight mouthfuls. A crowd of pretty Asian boys and cute black hunks encircled me and jerked themselves until I was bukkaked. I wallowed around in their infected cum like a pig in mud. I could feel poisonous seed coursing through my veins. I could feel its potency rotting my immune system with such incredible, arousing power. It was the truest ecstasy. The first thing I did afterwards was go get tested, to confirm what I already knew. When the nurse handed me my positive results, I celebrated that sheet of paper like it was my college diploma.
Speaking of which, at around the same time, I got an internship at the busiest hospital in my hometown of Springville, where I processed lab results. I worked in the very same lab where I received my diagnosis, as a matter of fact. Anyways, I wanted my newly infected bug to worsen. In fact, I wanted to be the vector of the gnarliest, nastiest, most potent bug ever. So I refused treatment, you ask? No. I took my prescription of darunavir just like the doctor ordered until the symptoms nearly vanished. Then I stopped medicating until my fever grew back full force. Then I resumed treatment until my bug once again teetered on the brink of death. Rinse and repeat indefinitely. The result was a viral mutation; a superbug that had developed an immunity to all possible treatment. I was essentially a mad scientist, having genetically engineered a deadly bioweapon using myself as the guinea pig. Now that my body was the vessel of an impending natural disaster, what was left to do? Spread it, of course.
Every night after my shift at the lab, I went to the local gay bar and fucked every single man that would have me. Some were easy as pie, fetishizing barebacking or even being fellow bug chasers themselves. But most demanded I wear protection, so I went around with a wallet full of a dozen condoms that I had to restock every night. Did I mention that I cut the tip off of each condom the night prior? Yes, there was not a single man who could escape the bite of my venomous cum. I stealthily planted my seed deep in their assholes where they would never find it until it was too late. The sluttier victims would openly bathe in the corrosive acid that bled from my tip, swallowing every drop after fellatio or wallowing around in a puddle of the stuff. Knowing how ruinous and radioactive my cum was, I’m surprised it didn’t melt their flesh on the spot. They would almost always remark on its bitter taste of decay; an eerie hint that they had just been fatally poisoned.
And remember; I work at the local blood test lab. Whenever someone came in concerned they had HIV, I would be the one to handle their paperwork. I would analyze their blood, they would of course test positive, but I would forge a false negative printout sheet and hand it to them. There’s nothing I cherish more than seeing their sigh of relief when they read that terrible, terrible lie. And so they would be sent back into the world, unknowingly spreading their disease further and further. And even if they did know, it wouldn’t matter. I didn’t contaminate their immune system with a normal STD; I impregnated them with an invincible tool of bioterrorism. I singlehandedly fostered an entire generation of either untreated or untreatable HIV, and finally after eight years of patiently waiting, the rotten fruit of my labors have been made manifest.
The irreversible change seemed to happen almost overnight. Once upon a time, Springville seemed to be the poster child for sexual hygiene. Now, it looks like town straight out of a zombie apocalypse movie. Men shamble the streets, deathly ill beyond treatment. Everyone is stricken with nigh-fatal fevers, their brains painfully boiling in meningitis. Pneumonia and tuberculosis slay the population like the Black Plague. I have unleashed an AIDS epidemic upon Springville. It is now a quarantined dystopia, a breeding ground of disease. A decade ago, the death rate here was 573. Now? 986 and growing. It’s the deadliest city in America, making even Detroit seem like a paradise. I write this remorseless confession on my deathbed. My AIDS-linked meningitis is terminal. I tried to seek treatment, to savor the sickness for as long as possible, but every last hospital and medical clinic within a hundred miles is overcapacity. I die with a smile on my face, knowing my horrible fate is shared with thousands others, and it’s all my doing.
