Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.

I grew up in a Modern Orthodox Jewish family in New Jersey, where my “sex talk,” at 13, came in the form of my mother handing me a book of anatomical comics. Inside it, she placed post-it notes to indicate her feelings. In the masturbation section: “God does not approve of this.” In the gay sex section: “Definitely not.”

When I came out at 18, I had to learn everything on my own. Last year, as a 21-year-old college student, I got my hardest lesson.

Out one night in early 2012, I met a young, attractive lawyer, and we hooked up. The next day, he called me. He was tall, intriguing, and he had his own place. Within 24 hours of our first night, he wanted to see me again? Score! I soon found myself back inside his apartment. It was warm, the throw pillows intentionally haphazard, and beers lined up perfectly by the fridge. I smiled. Handsomer than I’d remembered, he ushered me inside.

“Sit down,” he said.

Oh God, I thought.

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“I just found out that I was with a positive partner yesterday before you,” he said. “We weren’t safe either. I’m not sure I contracted it, or anything, but I’m going on PEP. And you should, too.”

The “it” hung between us like a malevolent spirit, like our sealed fates, like the breath I’d been holding the whole time. In my hand he put three pills — all white, different shapes, not little — and said, “swallow.”

Thus began my 30 days on post-exposure prophylaxis: the treatment regimen I started within a day of potential exposure to prevent the spread of the virus. I was taking the same antiretroviral drugs a positive person might take, knowing that if it worked, I would never know if I had been infected. Here was my small window to prevent the disease from taking hold.

The next morning at 8, with my backpack, dressed for class, and fighting to stay composed, I lined up at Callen-Lorde, an L.G.B.T. primary health care center in Manhattan that offers free H.I.V. testing.

Today you can buy an at-home H.I.V. test, but then the tests were done in one of two ways: rapid or acute. Rapid testing meant a prick to the finger and 20 minutes of waiting in bitter agony. The acute test required that a more substantial blood sample be sent to a lab to detect the actual virus in the bloodstream. I was so nervous, I took both.

My results came back negative, but it had been less than 48 hours since I had had unprotected sex, and the tests can miss the virus at this stage. I would have to be tested again after I finished the drug regimen at the end of the month. The counselor taught me that a positive result was no death warrant. At the pharmacy, I learned that it would instead be an extraordinarily expensive and excruciating lifestyle change.

When the pharmacist rang up the one-month dose of Isentress and Truvada, one of the standard drug cocktails for H.I.V. repression, I excused myself to the bank and transferred in from savings. My student insurance didn’t cover preventive meds, and I couldn’t ask my family for help. I refused to hear “I told you so.” So I paid about $500 for a one-month supply of medications that would wreak havoc on my body.

That first day, I could already feel the drugs. My skin felt like it was hot and bubbling below the surface; my eyes felt drier than dry. Pangs shot across my stomach. Soon moving hurt, eating hurt, my energy level remained at drowsy for the entire month. My skin, already pale, became vampiric. I didn’t tell my relatives, my friends, or even my roommates, who I feared would judge me. I was so ashamed.

The only person I could talk to was my infector. We texted each other for moral support. “How does it feel today?” he asked. “I’ve been celibate for a month, and my body is revolting. What do you think?” I answered. He was there for me through the end — to the last pill.

After 30 days, the process ended in a second test to see if my fate had been averted. “You get to continue living your life as it is,” the counselor proclaimed.

How could the best news possible be so underwhelming? I was still alone, devoid of support, and now traumatized by sex. I walked home, hands in my pockets. I felt as if I had aged 10 years. Something in me blamed myself, but something worse blamed him. I texted, “All clear.” He texted back, “Yeah, we made it,” and we never spoke again.

Spring was unfolding. I started going to the gym again. At Callen-Lorde I’d grabbed a handful of condoms. I took them out and put them in a glass bowl by my bed as if they were candy. There are ways to train yourself. A year later, I still get tested every few months, and try to make better choices. I hid the will I’d been writing. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

Isaac Lobel is a junior at the New School.