When I started receiving online ads from Canadian Blood Services, it made me think about my history with donating blood. I clicked them, going down the familiar road of researching my eligibility. Interacting with the ads prompted them to come flooding in. Coincidentally, always at periods when I was ineligible.

I am a man who has sex with other men. I have taken a medication called pre-exposure prophylaxis, more commonly known as PrEP, to reduce the risk of HIV. PrEP medication can reduce the accuracy of screening tests in detecting low levels of HIV. These are the reasons I cannot donate blood.

Since the HIV/AIDS epidemic in the early 1980s, there has been a long history of blood ban regulations, an ongoing debate throughout Canada. On September 11, 2022, the Canadian Blood Services removed eligibility questions specific to men who have sex with men (gbMSM).

This change removed questions about sexual orientation that previously prevented many sexually active gay, bisexual, queer, and other men who have sex with men, and some trans people from donating blood.

It’s important for me to note that I am a white cis man. I am not a minority in the queer community. These are my experiences with privilege. I can’t speak to everyone’s experience, but they are no less important.

In the words of Lady Gaga:

No matter gay, straight, or bi
Lesbian, transgender life
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born to survive.

Now, they ask all donors the same questions about sexual behaviour regardless of sexual orientation or gender.

Everyone is asked if they’ve had any new and/or multiple sexual partners in the last three months. Canadian Blood Services defines new sexual partners as “someone you’ve never had sex with before, or someone with whom you had a past sexual relationship that ended, and with whom you have started having sex again in the last three months.”

If they have, they are asked a follow-up question about whether they’ve had anal sex with any partner in the last three months.

This change was long overdue.

In the mid 1980s, Canadian Blood Services’ predecessor, the Canadian Red Cross Blood Transfusion Service, introduced a donor selection criterion that excluded all men who have sex with men. This criterion was put in place as an intended safety measure after the blood system crisis in Canada. At the time, HIV was a new disease for which research, testing, and understanding of the illness was very young.

After many years, in 2011, the Canadian Blood Services’ board of directors approved plans to move away from the long-standing permanent deferral for men who have sex with men. Instead, it moved to a defined term of no more than 10 years and no less than five years since the last sexual contact.

In 2013, selection criteria for gbMSM changed from an indefinite deferral period for any man who has had sex with other men—even once—since 1977 to a time-based deferral of five years since the last sexual contact.

I became sexually active in 2015. Not long before, I was a minor and too young to donate, let alone understand the complex history I was about to step into. Fresh out of the closet, the blood donation ineligibility period for men who had sex with men ban sat at five years.

In 2016, it was reduced to one year. I was having sex more than once a year.

I was at the peak of exploring my sexuality in my early twenties when the ban was reduced to three months in 2019, leaving me ineligible. It wasn’t until late 2022 when I had my first small window of opportunity to donate.

There had been few periods where I’d been eligible over the last two years. But since donating had never been on my radar, it didn’t cross my mind until it was too late.

Once I was in a committed relationship, I was able to donate after three months. But I didn’t want to anymore.

I was enraged. I was sad. I still am.

Why would I support something that has long discriminated against me? I acknowledge that the ban was necessary at the time of the epidemic, but today’s standards of testing should have been implemented long ago.

In 2025, I still haven’t donated blood.

The discrimination and stigma continues today. On Grindr, a popular gay hookup app, people still ask: “Are you clean?”—meaning, are you HIV-positive? Is your blood dirty?

Before I knew the slang, I used to think people were asking me if I showered. Now I just block them.

Unsurprisingly, this happens frequently within the gay community and perpetuates stigma. HIV is not a gay disease. It’s not even a disease; it’s an infection.

It’s important to specify that HIV-negative refers to being without the infection, and HIV-positive refers to having the infection. It has nothing to do with it being a positive-being-good or negative-being-bad thing. You’d be surprised how often this gets mixed up.

Language matters. As an acronym, STD rolls off the tongue without a second thought that the D stands for disease.

A friend of mine used the acronym STD (sexually transmitted disease) when discussing getting tested together. I corrected him that the acceptable term to use is STI (sexually transmitted infection). I don’t blame him for the misunderstanding. The necessary educational resources aren’t available in the public system.

The World Health Organization (WHO) recommended the terminology change to be more inclusive in 1999. However, referring to STIs as a disease is still very common.

It takes these little efforts to make big changes. It’s like Hilary Duff said: “When you say ‘that’s so gay,’ do you realize what you say?—Knock it off.”

I spoke up because I knew better. A year ago I wouldn’t have said anything, and a few years before that I wouldn’t have known myself. Sex ed isn’t taught one way, and it certainly isn’t taught ‘gay’.

What did I learn during sex ed? How to label anatomical parts and use a condom to prevent pregnancy. Other cohorts my age disrupted the class, making jokes about the diagrams—the balls were hanging low, lower than the flaccid penis shown on the projector screen. I cowered in shame at the thought of my own prepubescent body.

Though the information provided by Canadian Blood Services is scientific and factual, it feels anything but that. It’s emotional for me. I am HIV-negative, but still I mourn. I mourn for my community. Now 27 years old, I wasn’t born at the time of the AIDS epidemic, but its effects have more than trickled down into modern day.

You look around and there are noticeably more gay youth. This isn’t a phenomenon; the younger generations are more comfortable coming out with the progress that has been made. Why aren’t there more gay men from previous generations?

I’ll give you a hint; it isn’t because there were fewer gay people at the time.

HIV was widespread in the gay community and the infection became known as the ‘gay plague’. In 2024, UNAIDS reported that roughly 42.3 million people have died from AIDS-related illnesses since the epidemic began.

If I were alive and closeted at the time, I wouldn’t want to ‘come out’ either. Especially after watching my close friends die alone. Those who survived the epidemic carry that trauma for themselves and the community. Like war vets, I have met people who still can’t talk about it.

Times have changed. A person can contract HIV without it developing into AIDS and live a full life. With medication, a person’s viral load becomes undetectable, and therefore untransmittable. This means I could have unprotected sex with an HIV-positive person who correctly takes their medication without contracting HIV.

The effects of the epidemic still linger. I’ll admit, I am reluctant and would decline sleeping with someone with undetectable HIV, even with a condom. I’m not immune to the stigma—it is deeply rooted through generations.

When I was 13 years old, someone tried to force me out of the closet. They said it was okay to be gay, and gave an example of someone related to us. I learned that this relative was gay and had HIV. I’ve never met this person, as they have been outcast by my family since I was a baby. If this person was accepted, why hadn’t they been a part of my life?

I denied being gay. At the time, the subliminal message I received was that if I was gay, I would get HIV and be disowned. I came out five years later.

Last year, Canadian Blood Services apologized to gay, bi, queer men, trans people, and queer people for the impact of the former deferral policy. They acknowledged how this policy reinforced the harmful public perception that someone’s blood is somehow less safe because of their sexual orientation. They recognized how the former policy also contributed to discrimination, homophobia, transphobia, and HIV stigma within our collective society.

This was a step in the right direction, but it didn’t automatically change things for me. When suppressing emotions used to equal safety, this still brings me to tears. If time heals all wounds, I need more time.

Now newly single, moving to Montréal last year didn’t change anything. The ads waited for me when I landed. Now in French from Héma-Québec, the message was the same. So where does this leave me? I’m not currently eligible. It’s been two months since I last took PrEP—I have two months left to wait.

Even then, I don’t know if I’ll be ready to donate.

BLOOD BAN

i’ve never donated blood
because i’ve always looked for validation in love
but still, i bleed
yearning to be part of someone else

BLOOD BAN

i’ve never donated blood
because i’ve always looked for validation in love
but still, i bleed
yearning to be part of someone else