I look up above and wonder if you could tell which one of the trillion lights in the sky I extinguished tonight? How many more souls are waiting for me, waiting to be ruined by me? How many more “stars” exist in this city, in this country, in this world.  As I take a drink of my merlot I toast the sky above and smile. 

I have to say, I give myself way too much credit for all this madness.  I am not the only one responsible for their demise.

I am not responsible for David’s; I mean Dean’s, Darrell’s, Dick’s… Oh, what’s his name’s life who just walked out of my front door?  I am surprised I remember that his name began with a “D.” I rarely ask for a name, I mean, beside the formality of introduction.  In fact, ambiguity is highly encouraged and much desired.

He was an easy target.  It was a Monday night and I did not feel like working on him too much.  On the other hand, he was very handsome and it was New Years Eve.  The feeling was mutual, as usual; I am drop dead gorgeous and totally irresistible. My beauty just took his breath away… literally.  My eyes ignited his every fantasy. We were two hot bodies that were electrified and joined together as one, bound together by the heat of attraction.

As I walked by I heard his heart skip a beat,his body was saying yes, yes to my stare, that glare that takes over your body. He swore he was with friends and was only in town until the sun rose at 11:00am (At least that’s when my sun rises), but somehow that did not matter after my lips touched his. 

He was mine from the second I looked at him from across the room and smiled, walked away and came back a few minutes later for the kill.  He is some sort of executive for a pharmaceutical company based in Atlanta, ironic really.  One of the men who is perhaps responsible for enabling me to look this amazing, yet equally responsible for not taking away this death sentence permanently. 

Perhaps when he finds out he is now HIV positive he will push for more private funding to find a cure.  He might even turn over a new leaf and sacrifice profit for advancement…Oh please, who am I kidding?  He will die before there is a cure, or release the current one (wink).

He was very well built and had that useless, seductive look to him.  That “Just here for a drink” look, yet somehow was still at the bar at 10:00pm. I could see why he would be intimidating to most men.  He was well dressed, wearing a generic Gucci suit, last season, and a Girard-Perregaux Chronograph Laureato EVO3. 

Most BF’s (Basic Fags) would overlook the $50,000 watch as just another wrist watch, but not I.  You could tell a lot by the watch a man wears.  A Rolex, Cartier and Bvlgari are obvious and only display their desperation for attention, especially the lower end oysters and, gasp! Pasha. This watch screamed his underlying wealth and net worth, which in turn called out my name.

I myself am a very wealthy man and I have zero intentions on keeping him, yet the thought of shortening a valuable life gets me off.  I mean really, what’s the point of infecting the pizza delivery guy or a waiter? The richer and handsomer the man or woman is, the more exhilarating the act.

As soon as we entered my palace we headed straight for my bedroom, or so he thought.  I always make sure to take my new inductees into the guest room for their initiation. I might dose off and have them snooping through my personal things when I am not available for consultation.  This way we are in a sterile environment where I could throw them around and make them into one of the undead, then in the morning Lucia could clean up the mess. 

I still get flashbacks of us rolling around on the hardwood floors as I pushed him against the wall and made him moan in pleasure.  It is always these executive types who liked to be manhandled, they like being treated like a subservient while unleashing their inner bitch.

He should be in the air at I write, mid-flight to Atlanta.  In between the same clouds he thought he could touch last night.  The same clouds which cradled him to sleep in my arms.  He was very affectionate and wanted to cuddle and kiss after his death.  I appeased his desires to be affectionate, I too loved him. At least I did for the five hours he was here.  Five hours, five minutes or five years, a love lost is a love lost, it hurts just the same.

I mean in his mind.

He will test positive in five years, die five months later and six-feet under five days later.  I should have kept his address and phone number, I would have just died to know the outcome.  The older I get, the more I want to know.  I want to know how many more men and women he infected, or is “dating” or “dated” after me, and how many people his loves dated/infected etc.  I just loved math in school, one of my favorite subjects.  The only real useful one, at least the only one I use today.

He is number 311. 

I feel so alive this morning. I feel like my contribution to this cause is getting more relevant.  Imagine, if the same people I infected were just half as active as I am (which is about once a week on average in the past seven years) that would be over 48,000 new infections in seven years, courtesy of little old fabulous me.

Now, if those same men and women were half as active, that would be… Well, astronomical! This is why the world will never stop the transmission of HIV/AIDS.  Just one of me could hurt tens of thousands of people in just a few years… out of hand.

See why I like math.

Oh well, I should stop contemplating the numbers, I might get a headache.  Besides, one of my New Years resolutions is to travel more and aim for higher numbers. My deal with “red” expires in 4 years and I am behind schedule.  I promised him one million souls by then, although in succession I think I could safely say “Mission Accomplished,” but just in case there is something in the fine print, I am not taking any chances.

Smooches,

Sebastian