The other guy said, “I wouldn’t have to if you’d go out with me.”

I had been astonished at how casually the other men regarded exposure to an STD while I, embarrassed and guilt-ridden, hid behind a magazine and waited for my fake name to be called.

“Number four twenty four.”

The nurse’s voice broke into my recollections, returning me to the waiting room where the half-dozen other men sat silently, each lost in his own thoughts, our eyes never meeting. The party was definitely over.

“Yes,” I said, rising. “That’s me.”

“Come with me.”

A middle-aged man lifted his head, smiled, and gave me a quick thumb’s up as I passed through the door that separated the waiting room from the examination rooms. I followed the nurse to the end of a short, fluorescently lit hall where she deposited me in an office. There, a bearded man in a white coat told me to sit. No names were given by anyone, as if the entire process had to be shrouded in secrecy.

He opened a file on the desk, glanced at it, and said, “Your test is negative.”

I simply stared at him.

He smiled. “Yeah, I know. You expected something else. Most men do. But it’s negative. That’s good news. Breathe.”

I blurted out, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why am I negative? I took as many risks as the other guys sitting out there in your waiting room.”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes unreadable. “Why? It’s a statistical fact that not everyone exposed to the virus will become infected. I know that’s probably not what you’re asking, but I can’t give you another answer. I can’t give any of you another answer to that question. Now,” he continued briskly, “let’s talk about how you’re going to stay negative, okay?”