You’re Never Too Old for an STI Scare & a Good Cry in a Public Bathroom

At 44, I still feel like a foolish college girl when it comes to love and sex

“So what brings you back so soon?”

I squirm in my seat. My legs are crossed. I can feel the unforgiving fabric of my jeans cutting into my vulva. “I am… I’m burning down there. It’s like someone poured acid down my pants.” My face is so hot, I feel like I’m going to pass out.

How am I supposed to say, “I’ve got herpes”?

“Any itching?”

Itching? Jesus. Yes. Of course. I can’t sleep at night. Between the burning and itching, I feel like my vagina and vulva are slowly trying to kill me.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s not so bad right now, but it can get really intense sometimes.”

“What other symptoms are you having?”

I pick at the rip in my jeans. “My vulva is swollen and red. It almost looks like…I have a rash or something.”

There. That’s gotta alert her, right? I have fucking herpes. Jesus.

“Have you had sex since I saw you last week?”

My face goes red again. Not because I’m embarrassed to talk about sex. I just cannot bear to tell her what happened. Last time I was here, just days ago, my romantic circumstances were (seemed?) very different. “No,” I say.

“Well, your STI panel came back negative, though of course, we don’t check for everything. But we’ll get to that as we rule things out.”

I nod.

It’s fucking herpes. Let’s just cut to the chase, please.

“What about your boyfriend? Has he been tested since I saw you last?”

I feel like I’m falling into the floor. It’s just burning into a hole around me from the heat of my shame. Boyfriend? Tested?

Just lie. For fuck’s sake, if you tell her the truth, you’ll have to sit through a lecture or at the very least watch her give you that look, the same look that the lab tech gave you when you walked in and he read the list of things the blood and urine samples were supposed to test for. Yes, everyone, I’m a middle-aged woman who just had sex with a new partner, and yes, it turned into a fucking nightmare. Do we really have to talk about this?

“Umm…yeah. My boyfriend got tested. And he’s…good.” I wonder if she caught the slight discomfort in my voice when I said the word boyfriend, before the shame of my blatant double lie makes me want to sink even further into the floor.

“Well, that’s good news.”

I cannot believe I’m almost 45 years old and lying to my doctor.

“Why don’t we get another urine test before I have you strip down for an exam, okay? It’s unlikely that it’s a UTI since you’ve already been tested last week, but we can at least do a quick culture to see if there’s any concerning issue there.”

Boyfriend. My mind keeps circling back to that word. Tears are welling up in my eyes. Shit. I am not crying in front of her.

“Yael?”

I clear my throat. “Yes. Of course.”

She leads me to the bathroom and shows me the cups. She tells me how to prepare myself with the sanitary wipes, how to start peeing before catching it in the cup, how to package up “the goods.”

Yes, yes, I know. I just did this last week. Twice.

I smile behind my mask and nod, my eyes super wide and bright. Confident. Agreeable.

Once I lock myself into the bathroom, I pause for a moment, the sample cup in my hand. I see myself in the mirror and let the smile drop. No one could see it, anyways.

Then, I cry.

“Remember: when shame comes up, the instructions are to do the opposite of what it tells you. It’ll tell you to keep quiet. To remain isolated. To hide your feelings. But the best thing to do is reach out. Ask for help. Lean on your friends.”

I love my therapist, but I always struggle when we talk about shame. I don’t want to reach out. I don’t want to do the opposite of what my shame tells me.

“You don’t understand,” I said, a few days ago. “I’m almost 45 years old and I have never had a successful relationship. No matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to get it right. Most of my friends have been married for twenty years. How many times can I tell them, ‘Oops, never mind! Things didn’t work out. Again.’?”

I can see her sympathetic but challenging expression in my mind as I unbutton my jeans.

How many times am I going to have to pull my pants down because of my mistake? What is this? The fourth time? Why does this feel so humiliating?

By the time I get back into the exam room and position myself on the table, I add to the count. Five, now. I look down at my bare legs peeking out from beneath the paper sheet that I’m holding around my waist.

How did this happen? Please. Please let it not be true. Not just what is happening to my body…but everything. Please let this just be a nightmare. It still doesn’t feel real. I still remember the last time I touched him. The last moment I saw him before he disappeared into the airport.

Please. This cannot be real.

My doctor knocks before entering, peeking in slowly to make sure I’m covered up.

Who cares, at this point?

“So just to confirm,” she says, as she pulls out the ledge at the end of the exam table, “you haven’t had sex since we did your STI panel, right?”

I confirm. “My boyfriend,” my voice cracks at that word, at the lie, “lives in another state. We haven’t been together since…” I can’t remember the exact time. Two weeks? Three weeks?

“Well, in that case, we can save you the trouble of doing another panel, at least.”

I don’t care, honestly. Not that I want to sit through another blood draw that takes three painful attempts to get a viable vein. Not that I want to give yet another urine sample. But what would it matter at this point? I’m in so much pain, inside and out.

I hate myself so much. How did this happen? How could I have been so stupid? What is wrong with me? Did I imagine everything? Was any of this even real?

“I’m gonna have you scoot down just a tad and then put your feet together and let your knees fall open. Like Cobbler’s Pose.”

I do as she instructs. I feel so exposed — yet I want her to just look. I want to hear what I know she is going to say. I want to get this over with.

Why do I always end up hating myself? Was this actually my fault? Wasn’t I so careful this time, so watchful? But still…still, I was wrong. And now I’m here on the doctor’s table for the second time in the past week, my legs spread, because I’m certain I have herpes.

I mean, it’s not like we didn’t talk about this. Of course we did. I’m not a complete idiot. But that was before certain facts had come to light. After that painful conversation — the last one we had — I don’t know what is true, anymore.

She’s standing by my hip, at the side of the exam table and doesn’t make a move to the end of it, as I expect her to. From that position, she recites what she is about to do: a visual exam and a swab of my vagina.

I barely hear her. I want to cry. I feel like someone died. Like that feeling of complete desperation when you wish you could turn back the clock just a bit. Before the loss.

But where would I turn it? A few weeks back, when he was in my bed and I somehow managed to delude myself that we were building a special connection? (I can’t say I’d mind diving back into that illusion. Just for one blissful moment.)

Or should I turn it back farther, a month earlier, and tell him, “No, don’t come. Too much has gone wrong. Let’s just be friends.”

“Sweetie, I think you need to wake up. Obviously, this wasn’t what you thought it was. I mean…he probably has dozens of lovers.”

I just can’t talk about this with most of my friends. Beyond the humiliation of yet another romantic failure is this: the persistent reminder of the hard truths of reality.

Does he? Does he have dozens of lovers? Oh god, was any of this real?

My doctor does the swab first. I tense up when I realize she is going to push it in a lot deeper than I expected. The cotton at its tip is dry and scratchy against my tender, itchy, burning insides. I cringe.

Didn’t I want this? I mean, I said I wanted to be more open to casual sex, right? I wanted to be a slut, right? I want to be able to do whatever I want with my body.

She pulls out the swab very, very slowly. Even so, it still hurts.

No, I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this!!!! I wanted to have a choice whether or not I had casual sex. I wanted a choice!!!! Why doesn’t it matter what I want to do with my body? Why doesn’t that matter in this world?!

“Okay, I’m going to take a look now,” she says.

Please, god, please take away this pain. I cannot believe this is happening. Why did this happen? Please, can you just give me the small comfort of knowing why? Please, god, please.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of swelling here. You must be in a lot of pain.”

I’m so fat. And so, so ugly. I know what I look like. I can see myself in the mirror. I know men are often disgusted by my appearance. There’s no way that didn’t play a part. The timing proves that.

“Based on what I’m seeing…”

Oh god, the sex must have been awful for him. Men do not walk away from sex unless it’s really, really bad. He must have been so disappointed in my performance.

“…I’m guessing this is an infection or a combination of infections.”

Just tell me I have herpes. Jesus Christ. Can we get this torture over with? I know I’m supposed to be all sex-positive and shit, but I couldn’t feel less sex-positive than I do now. I feel dirty. I know I’m not supposed to buy into the stigma around herpes, but for fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to make this okay? This feels like such an appropriate punishment for being such an unlovable, unfuckable monster.

She tells me I can sit up now and I do so without grace, ripping the paper liner beneath me with my clumsy movement, feeling open air on my ass where the paper sheet came loose.

Why am I making such a big deal about this? Is this normal? Or do I just have a massive stick up my ass? Shouldn’t I just use this as a springboard to finally let go of this ridiculous desire to find a loving partner and just fuck anyone who comes my way? Maybe this is an initiation. Fuck my heart. Fuck my feelings. Just fuck as many people as possible. One and done and next, please!

“I think we need to see what the results of this swab are before we decide what to do next,” she says, placing the swab into a bag and setting it on the counter.

But I don’t think I want that. I didn’t want that this time. That’s why I’m so fucking upset about this. I was in love. I didn’t want a three-day-long one-night-stand. That wasn’t the plan.

“But what about…” I pause, still not able to say the word. “Isn’t it herpes?” I finally choke out.

This isn’t worth it. All those orgasms. Being in someone’s arms after so long. Kissing and… No, I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember. I only know that it wasn’t worth it. None of it was worth this heartbreak. None of it was worth this physical pain. None of it was worth this mental and emotional stress.

Fuck this. I am never having sex again.

“It could be,” she says. “But I see no definitive symptoms at this time. Therefore, we have to proceed with checking on the more likely possibilities — like bacterial or yeast infections.”

Please, god. Please make this pain go away. I can’t stop thinking about him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Please, god. Please.

“This is pretty normal,” she says. “Having sex is a big deal to the female body. It can cause all kinds of infections, it can make blood appear in your urine, as we’ve found in yours, and it can throw off the flora of the vagina in ways that can have a negative effect on the entire body. The vagina is tough as hell, but also extremely sensitive and reactive.”

Maybe I’m not overreacting. Even my doctor says sex is a big deal.

Two days later, I still can’t use much soap in the shower. It always manages to make a bubbly trail down my stomach and into my crotch, which makes me holler in pain. The symptoms have abated some, but I can still feel how off it is down there. Something is not right.

I can’t stop thinking that I’m either being punished for believing someone could want me or that my vagina is so hurt and so angry over what happened that she is burning the experience away — literally.

While I check my email, a new message arrives — a notification that my swab results are in.

I immediately log in to the patient portal, feeling my heartrate begin to quicken. Oh my god. It’s going to be negative, isn’t it? I realize I’m supposed to be rooting for negative, but if it’s negative, I have to go back to the lab for more tests. I don’t think I can handle having to pull down my pants in a medical office one more time.

And more to the point: if it’s negative, then it’s yet more likely that it’s…it’s…

Why did I do this? Why did I take this risk? Why did I think this would turn out okay? Why did I think someone could love me? Why did I let myself fall in love? Why didn’t he want me? Why did this go so, so wrong?

Why does this hurt so fucking much?

Before I even open the message, I can see the subject line: POSITIVE. Ten thousand pounds lift from my shoulders.

The message says I have a yeast infection. I’ve never had one before. I had no idea what to look for — how to recognize one.

Oh my god. It’s a yeast infection! Oh my god. It’s not herpes!

I text a few of my best friends to let them know that there’s no more need to worry. I’ve got my answer. I’m gonna be okay.

Except…I don’t have any answers. I still don’t know what happened or why.

And I don’t feel okay, at all.

© Yael Wolfe 2021

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