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Is it likly that I could have gotten HIV from this. But I do believe that these healed before my beer bottle encounter and the beer bottle was dry (the saliva was dry). I did this many times and by the time my stomach stopped hurting the area around my anus was very sore and I'm sure that i had a few small abrasians from wiping so much. However, 3- 4 days before this happened I had stomach problems and had to wipe my anus while on the toilet. I'm not sure that my dads cousins have AIDS, but they are promiscuous and I don't believe I had any tears in my rectum or anus.
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I also immediatly stopped pleasuring myself anally. after having it been inserted in me for a few seconds (15- 30) I relized THIS MIGHT HAVE BEEN MY COUSINS USED BEAR BOTTLE!!!! I immediatly stopped and threw the bottle away. While in the bath I saw a beer bottle and decided to use it for anal pleasure. My dad had told me that 2 of his cousins were staying the night with us. I came home from work and went straight to take a bath. Please answer this please!!! This is what happened. I'm so paranoid that I'm having trouble focusing in school and at work. Okay, I'm really worried that I might have gotten HIV last week. I'll repost below from the archives another post about a bottle up the butt.Ĭan I get HIV from dried spit inserted in anus? Mar 8, 2007 If, however, you have bleeding or significant discomfort or if your butt starts blowing soap bubbles every time you fart, you'll need to see your doctor or go to an ER to have your beauty products removed.įinally dude, if you insist on cleaning yourself inside and out, you might try an enema or at least a soap-on-a-rope! So long as there is no bleeding or excessive discomfort, you can wait a bit and see if your "No More Tears" reappears with your next bowel movement. Generally speaking, you shouldn't really have to shampoo your prostate! Well, I guess we can be thankful you haven't shoved the conditioner, hair gel and electric blower up there as well. Their Kickstarter campaign to build will remain live until Wednesday, April 16.You lost a shampoo bottle up your butt? Hmm. Along with Alysia Abbott, author of Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father, she is launching The Recollectors, a storytelling forum and digital community for people who have lost parents to AIDS. Whitney Joiner is a senior editor at Marie Claire magazine. And all he would’ve had to say in return was: I am. “I asked Mom once if you were gay,” I would have said. I wish I could have known that some part of him accepted-and was proud of-who he was. I’m not angry about it I just wish it had gone differently. It was probably one of the hardest conversations he’d had in his 38 years. He sent me a starstruck postcard from London exclaiming, “Guess what? You know Jimmy Somerville from Erasure? I met him at a club here!!” (Never mind that Somerville was actually in Bronski Beat, another of Dad’s favorites.) But to actually let me in-to sit on that blue blanket, look me in the eye and tell me he was gay-was something he couldn’t do. When he went to see Truth or Dare with his hairdresser, Mickey, he told me about it. In some ways I think Dad was on the verge of coming out to me back then. “Something like that,” he answered.Įvery once in a while, my brother and I talk about the what-ifs: What if Dad had held out a little longer, if the drugs had been approved a little earlier, if time and the eventual softening of our culture would have softened him? Would he be meeting me for dinner in New York? Would I be flying to visit him in Louisville or Lexington with his middle-aged partner? “Like leukemia?” I once asked, as we drove away from the doctor’s office, thinking of the hokey Lurlene McDaniels books scattered around my middle school classrooms, in which innocent cheerleaders bravely fought some sort of cancer or another, hoping to get one kiss before they died. I knew he’d had some kind of “blood problem” for a while he’d explained that much when we accompanied him to get his blood drawn during our summers together. Since my brother and I spent most of our time with my mother and stepfather, two hours from Dad in a small town south of Louisville, his life seemed far away when we weren’t with him. Dad taught business law at Eastern Kentucky University and served as a deacon at our church. I didn’t want to know.įor the previous four months, my father had been in and out of the hospital in Lexington, Ky., half an hour from this rented duplex in Richmond, where he’d lived since he and my mother divorced three years earlier. I didn’t know what he was going to tell me. We sat on the itchy baby-blue blanket on my bed in the room I shared with my 8-year-old brother. On a Saturday afternoon in April 1992, when I was 13, my father told me we needed to talk.