The Boogeyman: STIs and You
So.
There I was at my kitchen counter. I had a dish rag over my shoulder that probably should have been retired months ago. I’m putting my elbows to work on this one pot. I’d tried to slow simmer something earlier in the week and there was still a ring. I’d tried damn near everything and was this close to calling my mom when my iPod (yes, it was that long ago) dinged. I tossed the scouring pad into the pot and walked over to it. I hit the wake and checked the banner notification.
A friend of mine had dinged me on a social. I decided to humor him-if I scrubbed that pot anymore I was going to fucking lose it. I punched in my code and waited for the app to load. The moment it did, I felt my face contort as “mother fucker” left my lips. More as a question, but still. I physically pulled my iPod away from me and sat there, slack jawed as I stared at the screen.
It was my friend’s dick.
I mean, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen his dick, but like, dude. I’m working on dishes, it’s a weekday, what the hell.
I tapped a quick “Hey homie think you had the wrong @” back. I’m about to put my iPod back down and return to the pot when there’s another ding. I smirk, figuring I’d see “OMG SO SORRY DUDE LOL” across the banner.
Instead, the message read something entirely different.
“Dude, does it look infected? Like way too red?”
I stood there and contemplated what to type. “How the fuck would I know?” was the first thing to cross my mind.
It absolutely, positively would have been the wrong thing to say. I clenched my jaw, and rubbed my eyes beneath my glasses. I took a deep breath, and re-opened the picture. I stood there, dishes taunting me from the sink as I stared deep into the one eye of my friend’s serpent.
An hour later we were at a clinic. He had smoked half a pack on the way there and reeked of Marlboros. His knee kept on bouncing the entire time, keeping a beat so manic no one could have kept up. I sat in one of those super uncomfortable chairs, my head against the wall. I’d offered him the ride-not because he couldn’t drive (I don’t think he had his license revoked at the time), but because he was so incredibly anxious I didn’t trust him behind the wheel.
Sometimes with friends, it’s not a matter of what we want. It’s a matter of making sure they live to laugh about it later.
The thing that bothered me the most though, even more than the chain smoking and anxiety, was his face. Dude had been beet red and quiet the entire time, his voice practically a whisper as he spoke to me on the phone. As he told me how it had been so itchy, so red the last few days. How the bumps had caught him totally off guard. The way his breath caught in his throat, it was with a fear I hadn’t heard from him in our entire time of knowing each other. It wasn’t the usual “oh, I’m worried about XYZ” kind of voice.
In it, I heard “I think I might have fucked up my entire life. I’m scared to death,”
So I drove. And when his knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, I clasped a hand on it. He swallowed and we waited for the doctor to see him. I was already planning what I was going to tell him, even though it all felt like empty ass platitudes. “Ah bro, just be careful,” I’d say, “We’ll get you pumped full of penicillin and you’ll be right as rain,”
Empty platitudes were all I had. Because even though I’d been tested before (save for the dry spells), I’d been lucky. Despite being tested, I didn’t have to live with the reality of an STI and had remained willfully ignorant. Just hearing the abbreviation had my brain cutting to that scene in Planet Terror where Tarintino had his balls rot off.
The door opened. His name was called.
He reached up and gave my hand a squeeze as he met the doc with a smile. I took a deep breath, and patted down my shirt for my smokes. I’d been smelling it too long that evening not to want one. I gave the nurse a nod and went outside. I stood there, feeling like my lungs were in a vice as I thought and thought about what to tell him.
Not for the first time in my life, I had to stifle a laugh. Because I knew this kind of willful ignorance about sex and sexuality, it wasn’t like this everywhere. We both had just been cursed with rural southern education systems. But in not knowing dwelt fear.
And now we were here.
I took a drag, and tried hard to recall what I knew about STIs.
It Burns When You Pee
Let’s get something out of the way, right now.
Sexually transmitted infections aren’t life ending (by large). I say “by large” because yes, having an STI is going to require some behavior changes and treatment if it’s available. If you don’t get treatment, some of the infections can spread to other regions of your body and gradually degrade your health to a fatal degree.
Alphonse “Al” Capone, the infamous mobster, died due to a particularly virulent case of neurosyphilis. By the time the infection had worked its way to his brain, he was released from Alcatraz. He didn’t have the mental faculties to pose a threat to anyone anymore. The infection had eaten so much away from his brain that he would go fishing in a pond he had installed behind his home, and tell his bodyguards about the bass he had caught.
I mention this case in particular both because it’s so well documented, and to illustrate something incredibly important. What actually killed Al Capone wasn’t unprotected sex. It was a complete and utter lack of information at the civilian level on STIs, which led to a lack of social understanding and dialogues around STIs. Capone was in a hyper-masculine culture where women (particularly sex workers) were objects to be used with reckless abandon, and nary a thought towards the consequences. STIs in his time were universally referred to as “the clap” regardless of their origins or symptoms in popular common vernacular because people literally didn’t know there was more than one.
He just as easily could have gone out like Tony Soprano. Instead, it was his own hubris and complete disregard for women.
On the flip side of the coin lies Charlie Sheen.
Like Capone, Sheen exists in a hyper masculine high-risk space of hollywood infamy. However Sheen had a serious advantage in the form of modern information services. Sheen openly admitted to being HIV positive. Thanks to his celebrity status, this announcement caused people to go out and get tested. There was also a massive rise in the amount of people searching for STI related information. One (albeit absolutely horrible) guy did more for STI prevention than endless high school sex ed classes screaming about abstinence.
What a difference an internet connection and modern medicine makes, eh? Thanks to proper treatment (and drugs like PREP) Sheen and countless others are going to live long, otherwise totally normal lives.
An STI is not the end. You’ve been convinced it’s the end because less progressive public schools made you think they were instantaneous death. You were told by some PE teacher that there was no way to prevent them, and that treatment options were limited. This is empirically false and an incredibly dangerous, damning way to teach human sexuality not just to the public but impressionable youths. It’s an avoidable hazard that simply takes genuine, shameless approaches to discussions on human sexuality.
Not telling a bunch of teenagers “don’t fuck” and hoping for the best.
The curriculum linked above isn’t unique to the rural south or even today. I very, very vividly remember being told abstinence was the best defense in school. A breath later we were hurriedly told condoms were the answer to all problems. Some of the girls in our grade hadn’t heard about birth control until then.
This seems like a real horror show to some of you. Others are probably not-so-fondly remembering their own sexual education courses. Regardless, one thing is very evident about how sex and sexuality is taught in schools. Something that directly led to me rushing my friend to the clinic.
Non-cisgendered, non-hetronormative sex (or any sex that doesn’t end in reproduction) is “evil” and “wrong” and can kill you. It’s the same approach that was taken with the D.A.R.E program, and we all know what a success that was. Yes, I wrote that last sentence taking a drag from a joint.
Since we’ve established that an STI isn’t the plague from The Stand, let’s talk about what an STI actually is.
No, You’re Not Gonna Die, Just Don’t Be An Asshole
An STI is a responsibility.
Not just to you, but those you intend on being sexual with.
Just as you dropped your pants to get into this situation, it’s time to put them back on and look at the situation as an adult.
Get tested regularly:
The CDC advises at least once a year. If you’re someone whose hips piston like a V8 tearing ass down the highway, I’d recommend more often. You can have your test results (usually) in a few weeks after the lab is done with them. There is nothing innately shameful about testing-that’s residual guilt from that shitty sex ed class you’re feeling. Testing, like the rest of your medical history, is kept completely confidential and is ultimately up to you to share. Which brings us to our next point…
Be honest and forthright with your partners:
I can firmly say I have never regretted being honest. Is it hard? Yep. But I have never, ever regretted complying when a partner asked me to get tested, or when I’ve asked someone else to do so. You don’t look like “a square” or “an asshole” for doing either. If someone balks or gets indignant over it, that is not someone you want to fuck. That is someone who doesn’t give a shit about the health of those around them and I would personally take it as a massive red flag. People who can’t respect the bodily autonomy and health of others do not deserve the deep dick.
Don’t believe the tall tales:
Stop cleaning your vaginas with apple vinegar. Stop thinking you won’t get someone pregnant because there’s chlorine in the pool. Stop thinking sex without a condom is the only way to get an STI. Stop thinking people with AIDS/HIV are patient zero for the zombie plague and you’re Will Smith. If something sounds pants on head stupid, that’s because it is. You literally have ten times the information power of the Library of Alexandria in your palm with a smartphone. Stop scrolling through your ex’s pics and read up stuff from reliable sources. Just because Gweneth Paltrow thinks shoving a Hoover in her cooter is going cleanse the bad energies away doesn’t mean you need to be a dumb ass too. Stop relying on bad actors and information voids to feed your own paranoia about your body. Bodily autonomy was and still is being taken from you on a daily basis. Fight back by actually informing yourself and learning. Information is free and beautiful-and the greatest way to destroy fear.
Lastly, if you DO have an STI-Don’t Panic
An STI isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even the end of you. It is a life altering thing, but you know what? So is losing your job. So is finding out a friend is sick. You rose to each of those challenges, met them and succeeded. You did it with information, with understanding-and with bravery.
An STI is no different. Unlike Capone, you’re fortunate enough to be born in the modern era. Testing is reasonably quick. Medical professionals can and will advise you on how best to proceed. If you’ve got to take meds, take them. If you’ve got to get a check up, do it. The initial shock of finding out you’re positive for something is just that-initial shock. It won’t last forever. The fear and panic on your heart that seems so massive in the moment, it’ll pass. When it does, take a deep breath-and live your life.
You’re absolutely, positively still the same wonderful person you were before.
Ring-a-Dingaling
I was sitting on my couch about to light one up when the phone rang. I stifled a curse and tried to keep my eyes rolling from their socket as I rose and turned my phone over. It was my friend from before, and I hit answer right away. I’d not heard from him in about two weeks-that breath we both had been holding?
We finally got to let it go.
“Dude, I’m fucking clean! Doc said the bumps were fucking razor burns!” he shouted, without so much as a howdy first. I gave a laugh, and tucked my joint behind my ear.
“Well fuck man, that’s great. Glad to hear it,”
“Yeah,” he replied, “Me too. Hey, I owe you one. Wanna grab a burger?”
I snorted, and felt myself smiling. “You don’t owe me shit, Boss. No big, no big,”
“Yeah well,” he said, his voice dropping just a bit, “Still. Means a lot. I uh-”
“I know man,” I said.
“-It was scary, you know?” he continued.
“I know. And I hope you know any time shit like this happens, I’m here for you. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay Jack. I’m still coming with burgers,” he said laughing.
I rolled my eyes-but didn’t drop the smile. “Yeah yeah. See you in a few,”
I hung up, and stuck the joint back between my lips. I lit up, and coughed out another laugh. If our roles had been reversed, I’d no doubt he’d have done the same for me. Friendship, human empathy-it’s beautiful like that. It keeps us strong when we can’t be that way on our own.
Be strong for your friends, and yourself.
-j