Amebiasis first.
Then hepatitis.
NSU—nonspecific urethritis. That was kind of a bitch. When my doctor’s office took a swab, the Q-tip in my urethra was less uncomfortable than the effort to avoid an erection while the hot nurse practitioner “milked” my penis to push what little discharge there was toward the tip. He sent the sample to the lab but went ahead and prescribed the treatment for gonorrhea, which cleared up the symptoms for a week. But then the symptoms came back and I had to go through a second round of antibiotics, whose effect on my gastroenterological system was significantly more unpleasant than the burn when I took a piss.
Anal warts. I protested to my doctor that I had only ever had a bare dick up my ass the one time, and that had been three years earlier, so how could I have suddenly contracted warts? My doctor couldn’t quite keep the smirk off his face. Have you had a finger up there? he asked. “Asked.” Lesson learned.
I discovered I was immune to hep B when I went for my vaccination—i.e., I’d already been exposed.
Another UTI. This from a new boyfriend who didn’t realize he was harboring an infection. He didn’t realize he was HIV-positive either, but awkwardly enough I did, when he told me that the results of his test (his first) had been “delayed” for a week, which those of us who knew the drill understood as code for a positive result that had been sent out for confirmation. Man, that was a long week. The next three years were a breeze by comparison.
Genital warts welcomed me back to single life.
When I got crabs when I was thirty-five I was like, I can’t believe you waited so long! They made quite an entrance though—I discovered them on the plane back from Barcelona. Sorry, Delta!
Scabies was the last of them, which felt like appropriate closure, since I’d also had it as a kid. My slutty days were over by the time syphilis came back in fashion, though how I missed herpes I’ll never know.
For a few years after that a wart would show up like a birthday card from a forgetful aunt. I won’t say it was fun having them frozen off, but, you know, it could have been worse. Safe sex works!
(N.B. potential critics: you are not allowed to use the headline “Warts and All” in reviews of this book.)