You Had Unprotected Sex, You Dumb*ss
The embarrassment of admitting my mistakes to myself — and the world
You’ve never made an error, right? So you probably won’t have ever experienced the paradox of performing an act that you just finished lecturing your teens to never, ever, ever do.
I have been out of my ma’s womb for almost five decades and I’m still adding things to my “Dumb Things I’ve Done” list. This new one scrawled below
- jumped from a two-story hotel balcony into a five-foot deep pool in a country where medical aid was questionable
- drove 160 km to avoid being late for church — I would’ve made it in time had it not been for the fuzz
- followed a Private First Class Marine into a back alley in Pattaya beside the bar where we’d just met
You can’t learn anything from a mistake until you admit that you’ve made it. So, take a deep breath and admit to yours…people will remember your courage and integrity long after they’ve forgotten the original mistake. Mind Tools Content Team
Deep, yoga-ish breath. Reluctantly confess. I realize that unprotected sex is so George Michael. Yet here I am, needle prick still freshly dotting my bicep, trying desperately to squeeze one more millimeter of pee into a bottle. Crossing my fingers that readers will recall my “courage and integrity” rather than my labia-led outcome.
The stupid choice
I think that as adults we all know by now how hookups work. We also have solid knowledge that Sexually Transmitted Infections (STIs) are shared through sexual intercourse and oral sex. The American Centre for Disease Control (CDC) notes that 1 in every 5 people has an STI. Holy crap — that seems like a lot! Statistics also claim that 8 out of every 10 women will be infected with Human Papillomavirus (HPV) which can cause cervical and other cancers.
Liaisons without protection can mean uncomfortable and damaging STIs. I know this. And yet I still made the mistake of choosing bareback over safety. It was stupid.
So what are the real issues behind my embarrassment? Fear of my doctor’s opinion, along with the voice of my own self-inflated grandeur who is currently whispering “yes, you really are an idiot.”
Medical personnel have seen it all
Why do I care what my doctor thinks? He peers over his bifocals and my chart, remarking once again about how he cradled my husband’s head from my mother-in-law’s bloody crevice. How 35 years later he then sliced open my gut to reveal the next crop.
“I’ve medicated three generations of Alzheimer’s patients in this family,” he declares. He is long overdue for a pension check.
Why does it bother me that he knows I have made a vastly ridiculous choice to leave the condoms in the box — while screwing someone other than my husband? He has heard anecdotes a hell of a lot wonkier than mine.
Once, somehow, I ended up at a boozefest as the only non-healthcare worker. Eventually, as bottles emptied, the nurse’s version of a pissing contest arose. Emergency room stories bounced between them like Naloxone at a safe injection site. I was flabbergasted.
“Why did he shove a GI Joe figure up his ass?” I honestly wanted to know. Wondering the same about a dinky car, a wooden snake, and the glass baby bottle — with the rubber nipple firmly screwed in place.
“Why does anyone shove any of these weird things up their arse?” purred a doctor, clutching the neck of an expensive bottle of wine. The couch was devouring her at about the same rate as that sphincter would’ve inhaled the silicone-tipped salad tongs she told us about.
My point is that medical professionals have seen and heard it all. Why am I embarrassed to honestly approach them about having made an absurd choice?
My Ego
No one likes to admit they did something stupid, do they? My ego is shouting “dolt” on repeat. Here is what I will start telling it instead.
Intelligent people have a reputation for making dumb mistakes, especially in situations that require common sense. Travis Bradberry
Maybe I’m justifying it. Whatever the reason, we all make mistakes. We don’t need to continually beat ourselves up for being human.
My doctor is on vacation and so it’s the nurse practitioner who will be scratching away at my cervix. The last time I saw her was on a Sunday morning and she was rocking her niece who was being half-drowned in the baptismal water.
“She’s seen worse,” I hiss to myself, adding the next part of my new mantra. “I’m really just super smart.”
Except when I’m not.
© Jennifer J. McDougall 2021
