The syphilised man by Ron Geraci.
How to broach the subject of your partners' sexual history.
My second-favourite boxers were at my knees. “Look at that,” I said to Dr Brudersky. He turned my snake with a latexed finger, then retrieved a magnifying glass that looked like a Sherlock Holmes prop. “Mmm... that,” he said, eyeing the marble-sized, sandpapered red patch that my penis had sprouted four days before. “That’s nothing. A little trauma.”
“Trauma from what?” “You tell me,” he said. “I’ve never seen that before,” I pleaded. I questioned him about the opposites of best-case scenarios. He mentioned herpes, then scoffed the way doctors scoff when they send patients home with apple-sized brain tumours.
“Come back in two weeks if it’s still there. I’m fairly sure it’s nothing.” I leant towards him. “Swear on the baby Christ,” I demanded.
I’ve been terrified of STDs since my first run-in with them in 1977. Mr Jeffers, the perm-and-headband-wearing biology teacher, taught the first sexeducation class for boys in our school. Lacking a filmstrip that showed weeping genital ulcers, Jeffers gave his own, graphic explanation of VD: peeing burns. Sores on your thingy. Scarred for life. Women can get it and give it to their babies.
“I’ve got VD!” I wailed.
I tugged on his lime green velour tracksuit. “How does a girl get it?” I asked tentatively. His weak smile turned devilish. “By having sex too many times.”
Walking home, I made neurotic computations of my mother’s tally. Me. My brother. Two sisters. God knew how many other times. A block from home I realised it burnt when I pissed. I bit my forearm in terror, ran the last block and slammed myself upstairs. Seeing my unusual devastation before dinner, my mother questioned me until I finally broke.
“I’ve got VD!” I wailed.
She paused and leant back. She wanted to know how I got it. My face turned to fury. What nerve! I cocked my finger like a .357. “I got it from you!”
She blinked a few times. Then she asked for details of the crime. I pointed to the photos on our piano, then to my dad reading obliviously in the kitchen. “That’s four right there,” I spat. “And he said you get it from having sex too many times.” My mother put her palms into her eye sockets. “Not with the same person!” she screamed, rattling knickknacks.
Escaping the whole villainous lot - from chlamydia to Aids - has been 10 percent smarts and 90 percent dumb luck. I know that. But at 32, I can’t blow the perfect game now. Who could have given me herpes? I smouldered as I went over the list. Delia? Those three moronic romps with Hayley? Good God... Teri? Maybe it was a long-fused bomb from Tracy, that waitress from the pizza takeaway 16 years ago. After my night with her, I remember my 75-year-old dad, in his slippers, pushing open the bathroom door at 5am to find me scrubbing my penis with the cat’s flea shampoo. He cursed inaudibly and shuffled back into his room, likely figuring the road ahead would require more heel leather than he had left.
The night of my doctor’s visit, Teri came over. She was tearing at a pizza. “We’ve never talked about... a few important things,” I said. She bit into a slice. “Like?” Like the humorous little issues of what we might have done with whom,and if we might still need pills or creams for it, I suggested. “I thought we said we were both healthy.”
I explained that our seven-second talk while straddling the ottoman on date four wasn’t exactly full disclosure. She agreed. She asked how many women I’ve had sex with. I did trigonometry in the air. I mumbled a number. It wasn’t quite the legal drinking age. “That’s not... bad,” she replied. “You?” I said. “A couple more.” Her mouth wavered. “Maybe... double yours. Plus a few.” My beer glass started sliding through my fingers. My expression was not controllable. A violent argument ensued. “What, you want me to get tested?” she exploded. “As if that’s even your place to ask. Ever thought that maybe I want you to get tested!”
“I’ll get tested,” I said calmly. “And I think I actually do have the right to... Teri, that’s not what I mean. I just wish we’d talked abou-”
“Walk me to the door,” she ordered.“Teri, I am not saying you’re... promiscuous, for God’s sake,” I said softly.
“That’s what it felt like,” she said. “And I have no ammunition to retaliate against that.” We went downstairs without a word and I watched her car speed off down the road. Something bad just happened, thought. I still don’t know what. I don’t care about how many men she’s slept with. At least, consciously, I don’t care.
She took my four phone calls but was terse. You get to a point where you can’t apologise anymore. Unheard regret and confusion start to fester in you and you can’t apologise even once more. You can sit dazed like you’ve caught shrapnel in the head, but the sorry talk and flowers are eventually done. Then, after that, maybe you hope a magazine subscription will budge something.
Brudersky’s office called on Tuesday to see if I still needed the follow-up appointment. I walked to the john. No red mark. I had no idea how long it had been gone.
