I spilled my secret – then my date told me to take off my clothes

Between the grey walls, dull PowerPoint presentation and rain splattering on the window, I’d been about to fall asleep at my trade union meeting.

And then Thierry walked in. 

With turquoise eyes to swim in and a defiant jawline encasing the softest lips, there was no denying that he was wildly gorgeous. 

When he spoke, a soft Parisian accent floated across the room and suddenly, we were all alert.

As Thierry shared his experience of igniting bold, creative and law-changing campaigns from Paris to Hackney on LGBTQ+, HIV+, anti-racism and sex-workers rights, I was instantly mesmerised.

Yet, as much as I cared about changing the world too, I was focussed on two things…

One: could I get his number? And two: would I be able to unlock the secret that was eating me up from inside to him – and how would he react? 

Seven years earlier in 2005 a rash had spread around my body in a flash. I was covered head to toe in red blotches and spots.

At the time I thought it was a really bad bout of flu. My housemate knew better though and rushed me to the doctors to get blood tests and I was swiftly called back for results. 

Turns out, I was ‘seroconverting’ – when the body produces antibodies in response to a virus – and the rash was an indicator of HIV.

Because of the Section 28 law, I’d never heard about HIV in school, or the need to look after or protect myself as a queer person, or anything so silly and dignified, so I had no idea of the signs.

In fact, my only frame of reference was from watching the falling AIDS tombstone adverts stating ‘Don’t Die of Ignorance’ or my beloved EastEnders where Mark Fowler sped off on his motorbike after seeing ‘AIDS Scum’ graffitied on his wall. The images that defined a generation. 

My HIV+ diagnosis felt like a bombshell. I genuinely never thought I would be healthy, fall in love or have sex again without five bin bags strapped to my dick. I was devastated, lonely and depressed.

Attempting to date, I heard all manner of ignorant comments: ‘Can we share a sandwich?’ or ‘Do I need to medically clean the toilet after you use it?’ So soon I gave up.

I locked my heart in a box and the whole reality of HIV just hit me. It was like someone suddenly slammed my face against the window and changed all the rules. 

And then I met Thierry.

I’m still not sure how it happened – as I thought he was completely out of my league – but after the meeting he gave me his number with a smile. 

For days after, I spent countless hours staring at Thierry’s number in my phone. On crammed Tube rides to work all I kept thinking was ‘could I message him? Could something happen?’

Eventually, I texted him and was invited round. I had faith that something good might happen and he was also really hot!

On a stormy evening in October 2012, I went to his flat complete with bullet points scribbled on my hand from hours of practising a well-rehearsed speech. I knew I had to tell him, but his reaction worried me.

When he opened the door, he was just in boxer shorts – he wasn’t making this easy for me. 

‘Erm, Thierry, I just wanted to tell you something before I come in,’ I said, shaking. He cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

‘I can leave straight away, it’s no problem, I know the taxi number already…’ I continued and then he interrupted. ‘What’s wrong Dan? Spit it out,’ he said, looking concerned. 

‘I don’t really know how to say this, there’s no really nice way, I’m HIV positive.’ I finally blurted out and then came the pause. A pause that felt like eternity.

I was expecting rejection but I had plucked up courage and had a good feeling about him.

‘Don’t be so patronising,’ he said finally. ‘Do you really think you’re the first person with HIV I know?’

His eyes sharpened and I felt myself apologising. This was not the usual response. 

‘I don’t need you to tell me about how I should respond to HIV, as a gay man, as someone who observed Section 28, and importantly as a human being on this planet – I should work it out for myself,’ he said.

Mentally, I prepared myself to be shown the door (literally), but then he warmed, turned to me and grinned. 

‘Now come in, get your clothes off and get in my bed.’ I blushed and was both relieved and shocked simultaneously.

After resigning myself to a sensual-less life, touch turned out to be absolutely electrifying – as did kissing, licking, caressing, teasing each other, giggling and more. 

Waking up after our night of outrageously hot sex I felt like a new human. But the surprises kept on coming.

He fed me breakfast and then reached on top of the shelves for films about HIV+ activism. 

‘Here we go, fasten up,’ he winked. ‘Learn your HIV story – remember act up! Fight back! Fight aids! Until there is healthcare for all.’ 

For five hours, we watched nurses working 24/7 in hospital wards, volunteers on phone lines throughout the night, coffins being paraded through the streets and thousands of people occupying churches, government offices and city squares demanding the release of medication.

Then, he patted my bum and sent me on my merry way. 

Questions shot across my mind like fireworks as I got on the bus home. ‘So HIV is not my issue to deal with alone? It’s society’s?’ 

My mind was blown. 

That one night and day had changed everything. It rejigged my thinking about being HIV positive and I felt better, like a veil had been lifted.

This year marks the 10th anniversary where activists – people living with HIV and our allies – re-formed ACT UP: the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power. London’s chapter is a diverse, non-partisan group of individuals united in anger and committed to direct action to end the HIV pandemic, along with the broader inequalities and injustices that perpetuate it.

We helped fight for, and won, PrEP (pre-exposure prophylaxis) – medication taken to prevent HIV – to be available for all in the UK.

This summer will also mark my 20th HIV-versary – the journey of living and learning to love again with HIV – and I feel so lucky to be here.

I now have the confidence to speak about my situation and I have a chosen family of the most incredible people from London and across the world who have dedicated their lives to equality, love and education. 

I also have a biological child, as once I understood that Undetectable = Untransmittable (U=U), I could donate sperm freely, which has been a dream come true.

But there is still work to do.

HIV knows no boundaries yet divisions in our society mean that it impacts many first and worst. We need to provide support to the many out there in need. 

As a gay man, I often think of homeless people, migrants, trans folk, heterosexuals and the older generation who don’t have access to education, sexual health advice and medication the way I had. 

Eventually I’d like to see AIDS end but, in the meantime, I’d like to see an end to the stigma that surrounds HIV.

I’ve kept in touch with Thierry, watching misty-eyed as he has continued to change the world and illuminate pathways for so many others to free themselves from shame, because, above all, living with HIV is much more than pills-into-bodies.

It’s a question of how instead of just surviving, we can actually all thrive too.

This article was originally published November 30, 2024