The First Time I Saw This Term On A Dating Profile, It Felt Like A Knife To The Heart. I Hope You Never Use It.

I vividly remember the day I was diagnosed HIV positive. For months, I had been having trouble breathing, didn’t feel like eating and was extremely tired. The doctor thought I might have pneumonia, but she asked me to take an HIV test. 

When the test results came back, my heart sank. Turning away from the doctor who had just delivered the news, I was stunned by the gorgeous day outside. She told me I would have to take medication for the rest of my life, but I could still live a happy, normal life.

I was numb from hearing the results, but one worry was consuming my heart. Who would love me now?

But within a year after my diagnosis, I felt healthier than ever. Once I was HIV undetectable, meaning I could not transmit HIV through sexual contact, I only thought about my status for 10 seconds a day, when I popped my pill before I went to bed.

That is, until I decided to post a profile on a dating app. 

I had not gone on a date since I was diagnosed, but I was finally ready to get back out there and give love a try. I didn’t know where to start, so I created a profile on Tinder, which I knew was very popular. As I filled out various fields, I was nervous, wondering how I’d be perceived. Then I came to check boxes for race, religion and HIV status ― Wait, I had to check a box for that?  

In that instant, I flashed back to when I first got my diagnosis at the hospital. The day I was discharged, the nurse warned me that I would have to tell all my future lovers about my status because if I didn’t, it could be a criminal offense. It made me feel like a sick criminal with a deep, shameful secret in my body.

This check box’s attempt to reduce me to one label instantly brought up the same deep shame in my body. I chose not to disclose my status upfront ― it was my choice and I’d do it when I was ready ― but it didn’t help much, because there were many profiles where a man would write things like the following in his main bio line.

“My HIV status is negative and so should yours!” or―

“Please be clean. If you’re not, then don’t bother to reach out to me.” Another said― 

“When was your last test? If there is no proof, you will be blocked.” 

Reading sentiments like those felt like a knife to my heart. I felt defeated and heartbroken because I thought: What’s the opposite of clean? I suppose that’s me; I’m dirty.  

This is why sex educators caution against using the term “clean” to refer to STI status. Referring to people as clean if they test negative implies that they’re dirty if they test positive. This places a moral value on STI status and sexual behavior in general, and not only does it affect the self-worth of those living with STIs, but it also spreads shame and stigma that deters people from getting tested.

It helped me to listen to HIV advocates like the award-winning author, George M. Johnson, who also has HIV. In one interview, he said, “People don’t fear HIV; they fear the stigma. Stigma is born from non-communication, and the burden is only on the person with HIV. There should be a community effort also with people who are HIV negative to lift the heavy burden with those already with HIV.” Johnson is a Black queer author I greatly admire, and after hearing him say this, I felt less alone. 

It can be a heavy burden to live with HIV, and there were times when I resented having this disease. But I wasn’t ready to give up on love. Some of my friends said to forget Tinder and try a different app. 

I created a profile on Bumble, where I got a like from a gentleman who was very handsome with dark eyes, a sharp jawline and a beautiful smile to match. We messaged each other back and forth. Then we exchanged cell phone numbers, which led to texting, and we worked our way up to phone calls. 

In one of our calls, he said, “I have to tell you something, I have HIV, and if that bothers you, then let’s not waste each other’s time.”

I felt this weight lifted off my shoulders, let out a huge sigh, and said, “Thank you for sharing that with me, because I have HIV, too.” It felt good to be honest, and after that exchange, I started fantasizing about our future together. That old fear ― I will be alone with HIV. I won’t have anyone to love me ― began to dissipate, and we began to make plans to meet.

He lived an hour away. He had a vehicle, but it was a rental. He seemed a little demanding when he said, “Listen, I can’t put too many miles on the car, so you would have to come and see me.” I was willing to drive the hour to see him and drive the hour back home when the time came. But for now, we were still getting to know one another over texts and calls. 

We both sent each other photos of our dogs. Here was another thing we had in common: we were both proud “Dog Dads.” His photos with his chihuahua scored him extra points in my mind! I was imagining us Dog Dad Dating, going to the park with our pets and having a picnic, tossing Frisbees, and stopping at a dog-friendly coffee shop, where our dogs could cuddle up at our feet as we made eyes at one another. 

But then one day, he wrote, “Hey, send me a picture of your penis?”

We hadn’t even seen each other in person yet. Don’t get me wrong, I had sent dick pics to many guys in the past, but this just didn’t fit my vision of where we were in our relationship. He insisted, “You have to work with me here. If you can’t send me a photo, then this isn’t going to work.” That made me very uncomfortable, but I sent the photo to avoid losing my fantasy of our future together. 

A few days later, I sent him a cute picture of me and my dog. He responded, “He is so cute! Not as cute as you, because you are ugly.” I felt a shot through my heart. Maybe he intended it as a joke, but I did not find it remotely funny. I told him that he hurt my feelings, hoping he’d comfort me, but he responded, “I was just joking! Get over yourself!”

And there was my answer. 

I had been willing to drive a long distance to see him. I had compromised and sent him an X-rated photo. But I wasn’t going to put up with someone who couldn’t acknowledge my feelings and make amends. I gave him several chances to offer a simple apology, but when it didn’t come, I removed him from my phone and we never had the chance to meet. 

Looking back, I ignored the red flags and was willing to make concessions just because I didn’t want to be alone. This thought still scares me. Trying to find love brought me back to some of the earliest dark days of living with HIV. 

Sadly, I had to put my dog down a few weeks ago, so I have lost my best friend. Thankfully, I have my family and friends to keep me company and check up on me. At the moment, I am focused on loving myself and my body, getting in touch with my feelings and needs, and accepting my HIV status. Every morning, after brushing my teeth, I look in the mirror and smile to myself. After I take a shower, I look at my naked body and say I love this body. Daily practices that are vital for my self-love. If something bothers me, I address it right away instead of avoiding or ignoring it.

When I reenter the dating space, I will be truthful with myself and willing to have the honest, uncomfortable conversation with my dates that I have HIV, and you can take it or you can leave it.

I still yearn for touch, company and the joy of being with someone, but not just anyone. I want a man with whom time and the world can stop. Living with this infectious disease may make it more challenging to find, but I still believe in this vision of Mr. Right, and I don’t think it’s out of reach. Just as I am working to unlearn self-stigma around my diagnosis, the more we can all work to reduce societal stigma and use neutral language around STI status, the closer in reach that vision will be.

This article originally appeared on HuffPost in September 2025.