Captain COVID

Written by Greg Scarnici

www.gregscarnici.com

At the start of the pandemic, my husband, Paul dubbed me Captain COVID. At the time, we were living in Brooklyn, and I was constantly correcting things he was doing after he went food shopping to make sure we were staying safe. On March 24th,we decided to move out to Cherry Grove, where we’ve been living ever since. In that time, New York’s numbers started going down, and we, like everyone else, started loosening up our extremely tight quarantine to allow friends and family who were following the same protocols as we were back into our life.

Captain COVID kept his watch and would correct friends who were sharing joints at get-togethers, getting too close in the pool after they had a few drinks, or loosening up so much that they started hooking up again.

I’m one of the rare people who adapted to social distancing easily, and can maintain my awareness of what I should be doing even after five margaritas – which, as we all know, can happen on any given Monday here on Fire Island. As a New Yorker who has not yet tested positive for the antibodies, it’s been my goal to try to continue staying safe until we know more about the virus.

Arguments with friends ensued after everyone started opening up in different ways, and I needed to remind my friends that any risks they were taking also affected our entire pod. For instance, I knew we would be having a Fourth of July get-together with an 80-year-old friend, and I did not want to take the chance of getting him sick because I got horny and decided to hook up.

Which leads me to pretty much the only part of the pandemic I have a hard time dealing with: the complete and utter destruction of my sex life. Sure, the start of this dystopian nightmare we’re currently living through rekindled the romance between my husband and I, but who wants to suck the same dick every night?!? Certainly not this sex-positive person who would be well into the double digits of sexual partners by this point during a normal summer on Fire Island.

Back in April and May, I started an experiment where I would use SCRUFF to meet up with guys in the Meat Rack to jerk off from a distance. That worked for about a week, until sex-crazed men would say things like, “Let me suck you off. You can keep your mask on!” and “You can fuck me. I have the antibodies!” I soon realized this was not going to work out, as not everyone had the same restraint as Captain COVID. The first time this happened, I told the guy, “I’m just in Phase One right now,” and he laughed and understood. But as the summer progressed, any time I spent on SCRUFF always ended with an invitation to hook up that I would have to turn down by replying, “I’m not hooking up right now cuz we’re living in a pandemic.” Most men have understood, but many others have replied that they have the antibodies and are safe. One even went as far as to say, “I can show you my papers!” Gurl. I know you’re hungry for dick, but chill.

First of all, the science is still not clear on all of this and the testing has been a hot mess, offering false negatives and positives for months. Secondly, we all know some queen or ten who has lied to us on a hookup app. Bringing home an STI to my husband is one thing, but I certainly don’t want to bring COVID home to him or anyone else who is trusting me in our quarantine pod.

For me, I guess Phase Two would mean having sex with masks on. But it’s also an indicator of what we’re living through; AKA a complete and total boner killer. At 48, I need all the help I can get to keep this thing up. And although I would like to hook up with some guys I know and trust, at this point, everyone has opened up so much, that I don’t think it’s possible to do that safely anymore. In my eyes, there was a period between around June 25th and July 3rd when it might have been possible to do this because everyone was taking small, calculated risks. But as we hear rumblings of underground sex parties and witnessed what happened during the 4th of July weekend, Captain COVID is just gonna wait a little while longer before hooking up. Or at least until I can get that damn NYC Health Department-sanctioned gloryhole erected in my backyard.