Those Who Get STDs Together Stay Together?

I’ve been doing stand up and, naturally, my set leans heavily on sex and feminism. The first couple times I got onstage at open mics, I was compared to Eve Ensler—something I would usually take as a compliment, but somehow felt like an insult when the audience consisted of a bunch of dudes. The MC at one mic commented after my set, “What a nice, romantic story. Very Nicholas Sparks.” He was joking of course. I had just finished telling the crowd about my date with the self-proclaimed “female orgasm expert” with whom I had some of the most mediocre sex of my life in the back of his roommate’s van behind the Urth Cafe. I ended the story with, “Spoiler alert: I didn’t climax. But he sure did. Because, you know, he’s a man.” I guess the MC was implying that, because I think some guys are both bad and arrogant lovers, I’m not a romantic. I guess I come off as cynical. Have I become irreversibly jaded about men?

I had just started seeing someone whom I had known, as casual friends, for a long time. We had sex without a condom, so in my usual post-coital panic attack, I immediately went to get tested. The problem with me is that I’m a hypochondriac but I’m also bad at using condoms, so I get tested a lot. On Saturday afternoon, after returning home from hiking and brunching with a friend, I received in my email inbox the results of some of the previous week’s tests. It said I had tested positive for syphilis. I had been tested since my last unprotected sexual encounter and hadn’t had sex with anyone since this new guy, so I was pretty convinced he was the one who’d given it to me. 

Syphilis sounded to me like some pretty medieval shit, so I started looking up the symptoms online (mistake). What would initially start as sores and a rash on your genitals and the inside of your palms could, down the road, turn into blindness, insanity and death. I discovered that syphilis is rampant and has become a national health crisis due to budget cuts to STD prevention clinics. 

I considered not telling the guy right away, as I knew he was on his way to spend the weekend at a music festival. Part of me didn’t want to ruin his weekend, but the bigger part of me thought that if I had to suffer with this news, then so should he. He was appropriately embarrassed and apologetic when I called to tell him. He contacted the last girl he’d had unprotected sex with only to find out she had also tested positive for syphilis after they’d been together and hadn’t told him. He offered to leave the festival to come be with me, but the clinic was closed for the weekend and there was nothing for us to do but wait, so I told him it was fine, to try to forget about it and enjoy the festival. Meanwhile, I agonized, my imagination spinning so far out of control that I got online and searched, “if I have syphilis, do I have HIV,” which autofilled immediately in the Google search bar, telling me I was not alone in my irrational fear.

Finally, on Monday, we both made appointments to get treated on Wednesday. As I was leaving for my appointment, I received on my doorstep a lovely bouquet of wild flowers from the guy.

At the clinic, they took my blood again and I was called in to see the counselor. She informed me that I was the first ever cisgendered, heterosexual woman to ever test positive at their clinic. "Can I get a medal for that?" I joked. Then I got called in to see the doctor who said that syphilis infections were up 400% in Los Angeles that month. Then he told me that I didn’t have syphilis, it was a false positive. The guy also tested negative, he too didn’t have syphilis. Turned out the girl he'd fucked before me had gotten it from the next dude she'd been with after him. He was enormously relieved and immediately his whole demeanor changed. He felt understandably let off the hook, and wanted to celebrate. I was also relieved, but still felt emotionally hung over from four days of escalating fear and paranoia, and was slightly annoyed at how quickly he was able to bounce back. I was headed to The Comedy Store to see a friend perform, so we went to Saddle Ranch for (gross) burgers, and when he didn’t offer to pay the bill I became irrationally angry and disappointed. I felt emotionally raw and in that moment like I wanted to feel taken care of. It's the oldest story in the book, but I just wanted him to read my mind and know intuitively what I needed. We usually split the bill—which was fine, I’m a modern woman, whatever—but I felt like after this scare he should've at least offered to pay for dinner.

I didn’t like this version of myself. I had been single for five years, I was used to taking care of myself, codependence made me sick, and I didn’t like feeling like I was relying on someone else. My sudden unexplained grumpiness caused him to leave rather than come to the show with me. I texted him afterwards that I was upset that he hadn’t offered to pay after this whole ordeal. He said he thought I should have bought him dinner as he felt I had been really harsh with him over this syphilis scare and then I hadn’t apologized enough when it turned out he hadn’t given it to me after all. Maybe he was right, I didn't know. All I knew was that I hated this kind of lovers’ quarrel; I had successfully avoided it for so long. Was I really going to morph into this needy person when I liked myself so much more as a single woman not reliant on anybody else? On the phone the next morning, in a moment of impulsive frustration, I said that I thought this wasn’t going to work between us. I felt that my heart had hardened—did I even believe in relationships anymore?

Getting an STD with someone is traumatizing, and it can bring out the worst in people. Sometimes this makes a relationship stronger, and sometimes it tears you apart. Although it turned out we didn't have syphilis after all, I think the whole ordeal made us realize we didn't like each other that much in a crisis. Perhaps he saw it coming. When we first found out we didn’t actually have syphilis, he jokingly asked if I was disappointed that now I didn’t have a legitimate reason to break up with him. I laughed and rolled my eyes, saying that no, I was happy to not have it. But I did wonder what made him ask that—was he reading something into my behavior that even I wasn’t aware of? Was I really trying to sabotage this? Why? Was I protecting myself? From what? What I liked most about this guy was the lack of games, his openness about the fact that he liked me, that I never felt like I had to play it cool. He always texted back, he appreciated my jokes, and—perhaps most importantly—he wasn’t afraid of my angry feminism or my history of sluttery—both things I talked about with abandon on our very first date. Perhaps more than any guy I’ve dated since my ex, he seemed completely undeterred by my brashness. I didn’t have to pretend to be demure around him, I could say things like, “are you having a stroke?” when he couldn’t remember something I said, and he didn’t get offended. Throughout the syphilis scare, I realized I wasn’t just worried about my own health, I was also worried about his—and that felt like something new.

Just before I reconnected with this guy, I'd said to a couple friends in all seriousness that maybe I was just going to be single forever, and that was okay. I liked myself single, I had forged a whole identity around being an unattached woman. I didn’t know what me in a relationship looked like anymore. And I was scared of how being “coupled” might change me for the worse. I didn’t ever want to be in a codependent situation again, it was important to me that I maintained my autonomy. Was that even possible in a relationship? I didn’t know. A lot of the women I admired were single. Was that a coincidence or was there a reason? Was there something in me that wasn’t meant to be inextricably linked to another person? And was this view somehow limiting me from experiencing something potentially great? Could a relationship ever be something that actually fed me emotionally and creatively rather than distracting me from my life and my purpose? I decided that, for a relationship to be worth it, I'd have to like being with this person better than being by myself. Because being by myself was actually pretty good. 

What the hell am I doing?

“Here, take $10 in case there's tax.” He holds out a bill.
I shake my head, uncomfortable taking money from him. We're standing outside Trader Joe's and the air is spicy. Gaffer Guy is trying to buy me one of those cinnamon witch brooms TJ's is selling for Halloween. It costs $3.99. Again, he pushes the bill at me, again I shake my head.
“Fine. Suck a dick. I'm trying to buy you a present.”
This is just how he talks, I don't take it personally. I relent and reach out my hand but he's already shoved the cash back in his pocket and he won't offer again. I feel remorseful – I've made another mistake.

I haven't written in several weeks partly because I don't know how to write about what's going on. I also feel lately like a really big failure as a feminist, and I think I'm a little embarrassed to talk about it. Especially in light of the criticism I received from “Anonymous” on my last blog... I'm warning you, friend, it gets worse.

I don't want to say I'm dating Gaffer Guy because it usually doesn't feel like that's what's happening, but we do hang out a lot and sometimes it does seem relationship-y. He buys me flowers and brings them to me at work. We go out for lunch and beers often, and he always insists on paying.

He comes up with these strange plans, always on his terms, and I go along with them.
“I need your help with something.”
We're going to grab tea before he has to head back to work.
“You come over tonight after work and tomorrow morning at the butt-fucking crack of dawn, drive with me out to Sunland to look at this BMW. If I like it, I'm gonna buy it. Then you follow me back to my place in my car.”
“Okay, if I help you with this, you have to at least give me one kiss.” This is in reaction to last night when I sat with him and his buddy drinking beers for several hours and didn't even get a kiss goodnight. I've become very frustrated with his apathetic physical attention – getting him to fuck me takes much coercion and sometimes a little guilt-tripping. I swear I've never had to work so hard for sex – this must be what it feels like to be a guy.
“Uh yeah. If you sleep over there will be lots of kissing.”
That's all I need to hear.

These moments when he needs my help are advantageous for me, because it means I might get laid. It also means he can't crap out on me at the last minute – when something comes up that he considers more important than seeing me (which is pretty much anything – like helping his friend move big rigs in the middle of the night, for example). We're best when we have a task – he comes over to help me hang my paintings, I drive with him to Sunland to buy a BMW. This way we can pretend we're not just hanging out because we like hanging out – we really need each other's help.

That night, we meet for drinks at the British pub by his house. There's an incredibly loud rock cover band jamming in the main room, and we take turns screaming at each other over our beers. I enjoy the vibration of the music through my body, and it's so loud I'm forced to stick my face into his neck with my lips hovering beside his ear every time I want to say something - this proximity is usually a  no-no, and I take full advantage.  The band members are dorky and excited and look to be having a blast. He orders a chicken quesadilla and I'm not hungry but I eat with him anyway. His eating schedule is out of whack and I often have two dinners when I see him – one healthy and full I prepare for myself at home early in the evening, one junky and incomplete I share with him late night over beers.

I tell him I'm thinking about moving to London, that my godparents have a place there.
“We should just go there for a couple months. Tell them we're coming to stay with them.” Nothing he says ever makes any sense to me. The other day he told me I should move into his guest bedroom and pay $800/month and we could be roommates. I told him he really is crazy, that it was pretty much the worst idea I'd ever heard.
“Why?”
“Well, for one, you would start resenting me the second I moved in. For two, I don't want to listen to you fucking other girls in the next room. And then there are a billion other reasons it's a terrible idea.”
“Ouch, man, that hurts.” Yep, he calls me 'man'.

We walk home to his place and he's doing the dreaded slow blink that always tells me it's going to be a real challenge trying to get him to have sex with me. His dogs greet us at the door and Gaffer Guy promptly feeds them their dinner. Then he takes two hard-boiled eggs out of the fridge and spends fifteen minutes torturing the dogs by putting the eggs on the floor by their feet and making them wait to eat them.
“Daddy's home. Whose the boss?”
I beg him to just let them have their treat. He looks annoyed and makes them wait longer. Finally, he says “Thank you” in a sardonic voice and this is their cue to eat their eggs.
“I'm tired man,” he tells me again. I now know this translates to “I probably won't have sex with you tonight. It's not you, it's me.”
He changes into baggy boxers and a wife beater and crawls into bed. I'm wearing sexy, coordinated underwear but I see this is not going to have any affect on him so I take off my bra and panties, leave on my skirt and shirt, and join him in bed. He hits the lights. We lay there for a moment in the dark and I'm playing it very passive aggressive. I refuse to be the one who makes the first move again, but I'm also going to be totally pissed if I don't get some tonight. I'm on my back – not my sleeping position, but I want to make it easy for him to kiss me. And miracle of miracles, he actually does! After a moment in the dark, he takes a deep breath as if gearing himself up for something, leans over, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me long and deep. We start making out, feeling on each other's bodies. He crawls on top of me...

Afterwards, we hold each other. I kiss his neck, he kisses my shoulder and squeezes my arm. He likes to give me a little back and shoulder massage after sex, which I thoroughly enjoy. Even though I know it's my consolation prize for not coming. I've still never had an orgasm with him, which is strange because I'm obviously very attracted to him, I want him all the time, and I enjoy our sex a lot. To be honest, I don't really care that I don't orgasm. I mean, it would be nice, but it's not the reason I have sex with him. He just feels good to me, and in this post-coital moment, I feel close to him. It's not logical.

We wake up early and get ready for our road trip. Neither of us shower, both wear clothes from the night before. We head out to Sunland and it's Saturday so there's not much traffic on the road. We listen to Blue October's Sway and he talks shit and makes me laugh the whole time.
“I told the owner I'd be coming with my girlfriend so she doesn't think I'm a serial killer.”
“You should've said I was your sister. Then we could've really given them a show.”
It's a beautiful morning and I watch the sun climbing higher in the sky as we cruise up the freeway.

We drive down a suburban street that's not quite as upscale as we were expecting. We joke about a shopping cart in the front yard across from the Beamer's house – not a promising sign. The woman who owns the car comes out to greet us and we all pile in to take it for a test drive. Gaffer Guy naturally wants to check the pick up speed and zooms along the residential streets, narrowly missing a couple of early morning joggers and blowing through a stop sign.
“Whoops, didn't see that one. Sorry girls!”
The owner and I hold on for dear life as he puts this baby to the test. The owner tells us the windows recently started having issues going up and down and Gaffer Guy deduces they're off the tracks. The car is supposed to be $4,000.
“Let's say I give you $3,500 cash right here right now. Knock off $500 so I can get those windows fixed. It's probably going to cost a bit more than that but...”
The owner sounds slightly defeated but she agrees. He's good at getting people to do what he wants.

As she's signing over the title, her husband comes outside with their 4 month old baby wearing a little hoodie with bear ears. He's got orange and black Halloween socks on his tiny baby feet.
“His first Halloween,” says Gaffer Guy.
When the baby sees me, he opens his mouth wide in a big smile. He does it again and I laugh, feeling that familiar biological pang. Despite myself, I can't help but think that Gaffer Guy might notice how this baby is drawn to me and... I have to cut off this train of thought. It's coming from my uterus, which is not where my best decisions are made.
Gaffer Guy is counting out hundred dollar bills into the owner's hand.
“Gotta make sure it's all there. She likes to go through my wallet.”
Meaning me. I roll my eyes and glance at the husband, who laughs, realizing this is a joke. Gaffer Guy likes to pretend I'm his high maintenance girlfriend when we're amongst strangers. He's fond of saying things like “I need to make more money. This one needs new shoes.” Or, “Gotta go buy the girl breakfast.” Yes, it's a slightly sickening role play but I am so not this girl so I find it funny, and I sort of enjoy playing the straight man to his crazy.

He's also fond of acting out dialogue between us, naturally imparting a high-pitched squeal for my voice. When he does this in front of strangers, I try to get them on my side by telling them: “I don't even need to say anything. He acts out both our parts.” In some moods I enjoy this caustic banter, in others I find it incredibly offensive and it makes me hate him. Strangers watch our display with a mixture of sympathy and confusion, unsure whose side to take and whether or not this is a joke. I wish I knew. They probably think we're both nuts and we deserve each other.

All papers signed, hands shaken all around, we say goodbye, and Gaffer Guy hands me the keys to his old car. I follow him back onto the main road where we stop at a gas station so he can fuel both cars. He buys me a protein shake and we get back on the road. I follow him as he pushes 85 on the freeway, clearly enjoying his new ride. I hang back – I will not follow him over 80.

Back at his place, I park the Corolla he will be returning to its owner – an older gay man I call Liberace because of the way Gaffer Guy imitates his voice. We kiss goodbye like lovers loathe to separate. He holds me tight, squeezing my back in places as though trying to memorize the way I feel. He asks me what I'm doing later. I can't believe how much time we're spending together. I can't believe I'm still doing this with this person I have vowed to stop seeing more times than I can count.

My only justification is that I've seen a side of him that makes it very difficult for me to walk away. And I know it's a female cliché and believe me I hate myself for it, but I see all this raw potential in him and I watch him completely wasting it and fucking up his life, and it makes me want to be a good influence on him. There, I said it – we can all go throw up now. The other part of it is purely chemical – that animal attraction I can't seem to shake. It's hormones.
He texted me the other day:
“We both know I'm an asshole.”
“You sure are.”
“And yet you still love me. Who's crazy now??!”
I think he's just waiting for me to come to my senses. I know my friends are. No one, including him, understands why I keep coming back for more. I wish I knew what to tell them. Why him? Why am I so drawn to this particular flame? I'm trying not to be too hard on myself about this. I expressed to a girlfriend that I think he's much more vulnerable than me and I'm not worried about getting hurt – I'm stronger than him. She shared with me this sage analogy:
“Are the people on the Titanic any less vulnerable than the Titanic itself? I mean, the ship's gonna sink and they're all going down with it.” I laughed and told her I have a really great life vest.

Will I heed her warning advice? No. I can't seem to listen to reason right now. Not about this. Sometimes I think about telling Gaffer Guy, “you know what, I think I'm done.” But the only reason I would actually do that would be to hear him say “No! I'll stop being a dick. I don't want this to be over.” And I know he will never say that. Because he's not a guy who fights for what he wants, and his ego refuses to admit he actually likes me. Sometimes when he's drunk, he tells me he loves my face. If I told him to fuck off and never talk to me again, he would do just that. And that scares the shit out of me.