You can’t get HIV from sharing a vape pen: My story of HIV stigma

Just last month, I was in a bar in the Castro–arguably a gay capital of the world–chatting it up with a guy I’d just met. Hours later, he offered to share his nicotine vape with me. We continued to chat and connect about various topics; somehow, HIV came up, and I shared that I was positive. His facial expression immediately changed from carefree sunny to an angry storm, and he took his vape back.

“You really should have shared that with me before using my vape,” he said, upset.

I was confused.

“What do you mean?”

He repeated, “It’s just really not cool that you were hitting my vape and you didn’t tell me you had HIV.”

“Oh boy. Here we go,” I thought, as the realization dawned on me that he was concerned I could have somehow transmitted my undetectable HIV to him… through saliva on his vaporizer.

(PSA: This is impossible, even if I had not been undetectable for ten years, and had an uncontrolled viral load in the hundreds of millions. Feel free to check the CDC’s website that clearly asserts, along with every other scientific source, that HIV is not transmitted through saliva.)

I explained this fact to him, but it was not enough and he remained upset, a broken record, repeating that “It still wasn’t okay.” I went on to say that I am a San Francisco Department of Health certified STI rapid tester and counselor, along with a licensed phlebotomist. He still wasn’t convinced.

“I also recently graduated with a Master of Public Health,” I shared. “I spent the past two years combing through scientific data around topics like HIV/AIDS and stigma and ostracization of queer people.”

He still wasn’t convinced.

“I am also an elected councilmember on the San Francisco HIV Planning Council.”

Still not convinced.

“I have also lived with HIV for ten years and kept my viral load undetectable ever since my diagnosis. I know what I’m talking about.”

His body language relaxed.

Here’s the thing: It is not my sole job and responsibility to educate the public on HIV. It is not uncommon to hear someone in a TikTok video comment on how they “don’t want to get AIDS” from someone. (You cannot acquire AIDS from someone, you contract HIV and, if left untreated and your CD4 T cells drop below 200, or other rare complications, you receive an AIDS diagnosis.)

The UN recently warned that the Trump administration’s recent cuts to HIV funding could cause millions of deaths worldwide. We are, as you’re likely aware to some degree, if you’re reading this, also combating the detrimental effects of massive funding cuts to social programs here in the United States, including (but not limited to) eliminations of HIV prevention efforts and HIV research funding. This is particularly concerning because despite living in the San Francisco Bay Area, there is still a shocking lack of knowledge and awareness around HIV. 

It is alarming that the aforementioned budget cuts are occurring when, even in the gay capital of the world, there is still a glaring lack of understanding around HIV prevention and transmission. Yes, that was a single personal anecdote, but it is not entirely an outlier. I have had men here in the Bay and other gay capitals like New York City ask me things like, “Can I get it from kissing you?” I have had men stop talking to me after weeks of dating. And, of course, I have had many (many) men block me immediately in online forums when I disclose my status. It’s clear that stigma around HIV is still a major issue.

I recently stumbled across a social media post I made from eight or so years ago in which I disclosed that I was HIV positive. I’ve shared this post below. It sheds more light on the stigma surrounding HIV and how it has affected my life. I am proud to say that I have successfully worked hard to turn my own pain into healing; I now work as a long-term HIV case manager at UCSF Alliance Health Project. I also was elected and volunteered for a year as the HIV Advocacy Network’s Mobilization Chair, in addition to the previously mentioned HIV/AIDS advocacy work I am involved with.

In light of this month’s Zero HIV Stigma Day, Monday, 7/21/25, I want to share that I have come a long way since the days of secrecy and shame around my diagnosis. To quote a beloved musical, “And I’m marching on to the beat I drum. I’m not scared to be seen. I make no apologies: This is me.” 

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I have been living with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV) for two and a half years now. I realize not many of you know this. Last night as I was flying out of Honolulu, it hit me that I’d forgotten my toiletry bag, which had my medication. I had had a long day, and felt panicked and wanted to call someone; I was just recently off my meds because I couldn’t afford them due to a copay issue (this is one expensive virus).

But I didn’t know who to call because I have kept that part of myself pretty neatly swept under the rug. Initially, I reasoned, it was because I didn’t want anyone to be alarmed. I would handle it, suffer as needed, but spare those around me the worry. But as time has gone on, and various situations have popped up that in some way related to my virus, I noticed a feeling of shame. An example is something as simple as me saying out loud, “I have to go pick up my meds.” And someone responding, “For what?” I usually stayed silent, or changed the subject, or said something generic like allergies.

Generally, the only times I’d offer the truth about my situation was if I knew someone else was HIV positive, too, or had extensive experience with it (or with a man I was talking to, perhaps). I began to question the motives for my silence. If I wasn’t ashamed, and someone asked me directly, why did I feel unable to answer? I, who am generally well spoken enough, was tongue-tied.

I have had men stop talking to me because of my status, guys who I liked and had history with. It was, in my mind, a negativity that I didn’t want to bring into the world, that I didn’t want to expose people to. But I realized as I stayed silent to protect others from my sickness, I began to sacrifice some of my own well-being. Secrets are inherently isolating, and, as the saying goes, “We’re only as sick as our secrets.”

And outside of gay communities in big cities, not many people have much experience with this deadly virus, aside from perhaps a play they read or in relation to a distant relative. Even the physician who recently drew my blood for testing said, “If you’ve ever donated blood, this is nothing.” An exhausted surge of fury reared in my chest. I wanted to say, “I could never donate blood because I’m gay.” Or, “Don’t you know that’s an insensitive thing to say to someone who’s HIV positive? My blood is toxic, undesirable, unusable.” But I smiled and said nothing.

I remember the evening of the diagnosis, I was flossing my teeth and spit into the sink. Blood. It felt suddenly foreign, poisonous. I had become a biohazard. (Note: HIV dies as soon as it touches air – so would be no risk.)

I got the HIV positive symbol inked (shout-out to Antonio Brennan) on my bicep to reclaim my power. To stand proud and firm in my (vegan) leather boots. To flip the narrative. To break the stigma. I think I was waiting the last couple years for something larger-than-life, something magnificent—a book deal, a famous blog, a platform. A reason. “There’s no reason they need to know,” I’d always say to myself as to why I shouldn’t mention it. The parallel is, of course, when gay men use that same rationalization to remain mostly-closeted. I’ve seen that a lot with gay men, the persisting “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality. There is some logic to it. However, the difference is subtle but stark between refusing to oblige society’s expectations that we “come out,” and avoiding mentioning the gender of a person you’ve been spending all your time with. The same thing goes for my HIV. “Meds for what?” Perhaps one day I’ll be at a point where I can say, without hesitation or fear, “for my HIV.”

There was a day in New York last year when a friend was in town and wanted to get tattoos. I called around. The place nearest me told me they didn’t do tattoos for people with HIV because they “don’t want to take the risk.” Now, it would be unfair not to acknowledge that this is not an entirely baseless fear. There is always a slight risk when fluids and HIV are involved. But if proper legal sterilization procedures and whatnot are taken (as they should be in any tattoo studio) it would be completely fine. But I was so embarrassed, felt so ashamed, I let it go. Was that discrimination? I wasn’t sure. “Worse things have happened,” I reasoned. Alas, the fabric of time makes a mighty rug, so I moved forward, hurt, but alright.

“Alright.”

What a loaded word.

I have been “alright” for a long time. But I want to be much better than that. A book I once read talked about something called “conjoyment.” Contented enjoyment. I want to conjoy life. So I relieve myself of this burden by sharing it with you. You don’t have to bear any of its weight. Just allow, and you help me chip away at the stigma.

When I was first diagnosed, I was heartbroken. And I have never felt that sick in my entire life. There was one night in particular, before I was diagnosed, I was so weak that I couldn’t make it 5 blocks to the subway. I knew something was very wrong. I’m fortunate enough to have had great medical care in New York, and have been undetectable ever since I was diagnosed and prescribed medication. That night, I wrote in my journal, “I will live brighter, stronger, and kinder than ever before.” 

I share this all because I believe in a better world. One that is loving and just and fair. Not in 100 years, or in 20, but now. Right now. And I want anyone who is struggling, who is suffering, who feels spiritually displaced, to know that you are not alone. We must question everything. Be willing to be more wrong than you’ve ever been right. Will you fight beside me?