Dating genital wart
Because STIs could be a positive thing—a force of good change.If you have sex with 20 people, you will get genital warts. My pillows had seen more than a few DIY haircuts when I saw something downtown, too: bumps. Genital warts, to be honest, but I wasn’t ready to be. See, in high school, I would sneak into the gym during assemblies for fear that one of the older girls would yell “slut!! At art school, there were endless hipster boys and girls doing the same, moving in and out of each other’s beds (or mattresses on the floor) fluidly. My gym teachers had taught me about “STDs” as a scare tactic, going over symptoms with thinly veiled disgust. I was ready to settle in for a month of movies and prescription cream before bed when I got an unexpected call from my doctor. The doctor was perfectly nice, but the voices in my head remained. But I wasn’t actually a slut until college when I embraced pro-sex feminism a little blindly, veering more towards hedonism. The abstinence-only education I received in school in no way prepared me for the real life sex I would have—sometimes unprotected when drunk and sloppy or sober and shy. My friends weren’t much help either, laughing or leaving an awkward silence between us as I told them what was going on.You know how last year Jennifer Love Hewitt went on a talk show and said after a bad breakup, she “vagazzled” herself? See, I invented “vagazzling” years before Jennifer.
At the time I got warts, I had been going out all of the time—getting my picture snapped by party photographers, dancing in clubs to electro DJs. I had no one to impress with new makeup, nowhere to wear my jewels.
I didn’t want to think that I could get an STI—it was that whole “but it can’t happen to me” cliché. I put my legs in the stirrups, feeling like I was opening myself up to judgment and ridicule. But I got the meds I needed, along with some verbal lacerations from Mom about my lifestyle.