The Day My Bed Was Opened to Everyone

by Anonymous

***

The tissue-like medical exam paper crackles under me as I shift the weight of my hips* on the table, my legs suspended over the edge, waiting (im)patiently for the health-center doctor to emerge from the hallway. I would typically take advantage of this time to scroll mindlessly through Instagram, but the NO CELL PHONE USE IN THE EXAM ROOM sign has been so ingrained in me that it feels nearly criminal to do so. As a woman, trips like these to a medical clinic or urgent care are frequent. Men wouldn’t make comments about women being temperamental if they knew how erratic the vagina is. I must have just waited too long to change out of my sweat-soaked leggings after spin class, no big deal—I’ll be given an antibiotic for a yeast infection and be as good as new. 

After a few more minutes of staring blankly at the white walls of the exam room, the doctor, whom I’ve seen for several colds already this year, rushes in, looking disheveled. After an explanation of my symptoms, itchiness, burning sensation while peeing, she leaves the room for me to undress from the waist down. This ritual has always felt silly to me, ever since the first time I went to the gynecologist. You’re about to get up close and personal with my vagina; I’m not too shy to undress in front of you. A few soft raps on the door signal her return, and I am soon in my most vulnerable state, laid back on the table with my legs spread wide apart for her to get a better look. I don’t expect this to be an in-depth exam; she’s a university health-center doctor, I’m sure she sees a dozen yeast infections per week. I pick at my chipped beige manicure and think about the paper I’ll be writing once I’m back in the comfort of my dorm, anything to distract myself from the uncomfortable sensation of the cold speculum. The doctor then suddenly pushes herself on her rollie chair away from the table, and out from under the tent created by my legs and the medical paper.

“You can sit up now,” she says while pushing her glasses back onto her head, taking a deep breath. 

Why is she taking a deep breath? What did she find down there? 

“Have you had any new sexual partners recently?” she asks with a judgmental, holier-than-thou look smeared across her face.

I did just start seeing a new guy, but we haven’t even had sex yet. I’m a virgin! What is she talking about?

“I just started seeing a new guy a few weeks ago, but we haven’t had sex yet,” I say, unashamed. Whatever she thinks she saw can’t be right; I haven’t had sexual intercourse with anyone, ever. 

“Well, have you received oral sex from your new partner?” 

Her robotic tone makes my stomach churn, and I begin to feel a buzzing sensation in my head, making it hard to hear. 

Why is she talking to me like this? Like I did something wrong?

“Yes, I have. Why are you asking? What’s wrong?” I say, quite rudely. 

“I could be wrong, but I think you may have genital herpes. Have you been using a dental dam when receiving oral sex?”

What the fuck is a dental dam, and why is she acting like I should know what that is?

***

Are you sure you want to hook up with her? I hear she has herpes.

***

I squirm in the desk of my seventh-grade health classroom, my school-issued, knee-length, blue-cotton gym shorts riding so far up my ass that I wonder if I’ll ever be able to fish them out. We’ve just finished our forty-five-minute period of free PE, and by “free PE” I mean forty-five minutes of my friends and I gossiping in the corner of the gym and pretending to jump rope when our teacher glanced our direction. I heard murmurs during the passing period from my friends who are assigned PE during first block that today is sex-ed day. The room is buzzing with whispers, all of us wondering if today’s finally the day sex is demystified for us all. 

“Ok, class, quiet down. Today is sexual education day. I’m going to show you a video,” Mrs. Williams says. She is a six-foot-three African American woman, notably one of the founding players of the WNBA**, who wears her hair in long braids and has every color of gym-teacher pants you can imagine (you know the ones I’m talking about).  

The video opens with an undistinguishable silhouette of a girl, Katie, describing her relationship with her boyfriend, Jason. 

“Jason and I are just so in love that we wanted to share this special experience together. He asked me to perform oral sex for him and I did. I just wanted to do something to show him how much I love him.” 

The video then changes to an undistinguishable silhouette of a boy, Jason, to hear his side. 

“Yeah, Katie and I are vibing right now. I asked her to be my girlfriend a few weeks ago. We do cool sex stuff sometimes and it feels really good.” 

The video then changes to a silhouette of a man with an older-sounding voice, who introduces himself as Dr. Murphy. 

“Unfortunately, Jason unknowingly contracted HIV from a previous sexual partner, which he gave to Katie when she performed oral sex on him since he wasn’t wearing a condom.” 

The video goes back to Katie’s blacked-out silhouette. 

“My throat started to feel really funny after having oral sex with Jason. So, my mom took me to see Dr. Murphy who told me that I have something called HIV. Dr. Murphy told me that I have to take medication every day or I could die. I wish I hadn’t had oral sex with Jason.”

“Well, that’s it for sexual education everyone! Go back to the locker room so you can change and gather your things,” says Mrs. Williams. 

What is oral sex? What is HIV? Is that girl really gonna die?

I start to raise my hand to ask a question, but my friends are already on their way to the locker room and I’m too embarrassed. 

***

Yeah, she hooked up with one of my fraternity brothers, gave our whole house a scare. 

***

I wake up to my alarm at eight am. It’s a Saturday, but I wake up every day at 8 am, at least for long enough to take my birth control. Can’t be taking any risks in this political climate. After shoving the tiny pink pill down my throat and washing it down with the dregs of a glass of merlot on my nightstand, gross, I roll over and kiss my boyfriend David on the head. He is such a deep sleeper that he barely even notices but gently grunts, acknowledging my affection. 

“Happy anniversary, my love.” 

It’s the 26th, the four-month anniversary of when we began dating.

In response, this time I receive an “Iluhyouhappaniversarylemegobacktosleep.”

I gently swing my legs to the side of the bed and hit the floor as softly as possible so as not to cause any further disturbance. I walk to the bathroom, my fingers tracing the wall as my eyes adjust to the light and lack of contact lenses. In the bathroom I pull up my huge sleeping t-shirt and sit down on the toilet. I am immediately snapped awake when I feel it, the burning. No, no, no, this can’t be happening, not today. My suspicious are confirmed when I stand up from the toilet and begin to examine my pelvic region. Damnit! A herpes outbreak. Painful red bumps are scattered around the area. I should have seen this coming; I was so stressed with midterms last week and the weather just changed. No matter how many times, I can never anticipate this, and it is never welcome. 

I make my way back to my bedroom, carefully slip back under the covers and gently rouse my boyfriend awake. 

“David, I have bad news,” I say in a tone that makes it sound as though the world is ending. 

“What’s wrong?” he’s more awake now and sits up while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“I’m having an outbreak, so we won’t be able to have sex tonight. I’m so disappointed— tonight was supposed to be so special. I’m sorry.” I know saying I’m sorry is stupid, but I can’t help it. We’ve both been so busy with midterms that tonight we were supposed to go out to a fancy dinner, and I even splurged on new lingerie to surprise him with after.

“Baby, why are you sorry? It’s okay. I’m still excited to go out with you tonight, or we can even stay in and watch a movie and order takeout if you want. Do you need anything?” 

Before I can even answer, he’s tossing off the covers and getting out of bed to microwave my rice-filled heating pad. 

**

She’s such a whore, you know she must have done it raw with a bunch of guys to have gotten that.

**

After being further violated by a painful scrape of my cervix to gather cells for testing and the retrieval of a vial of my blood, I walk quickly out of the health center, trying to make it outside before the waterworks begin. Luckily, I’m successful in my escape, but not so successful as to make it back to my dorm, which is just next door. I ascend the stairs, taking two at a time, and manage to avoid the embarrassment of anyone witnessing my ugly crying as I shut the door of my dorm securely behind me. Phew, my roommate isn’t here, thank god. I dial Leo, the new guy I’ve been seeing. I have to figure out how this happened. 

He picks up after two rings. “Hey, what’s—” 

I interrupt him with, “Ineedtotalktoyourightnow, where are you?”

He seems stunned, but answers, “In the laundry room downstairs; we can talk there.” 

I hang up the phone and quite possibly black out because the next thing I know I’m standing in his hall’s shared laundry room. My emotions are a poorly mixed cocktail of shame, panic, and utter shock.

“What’s wrong?” he says in between keystrokes on his laptop. 

I sit down next to him and now all of the sudden I have no idea what to say. I’m scared. What if he thinks I’m disgusting now, dirty, not good enough for him? What if he accuses me of lying about my sexual history? 

“I don’t know how to say this, but I have herpes.” 

There is no gentle way to put it, so I default to blurting it out. 

He shuts his laptop and turns toward me, listening more attentively now, an expression of disbelief displayed across his face. “What are you talking about? We haven’t even had sex yet.” 

And that’s when I see it, the sore above his lip, concealed by a thin layer of an attempted mustache. I thought it was a pimple when we first met, but now that I’m thinking about it, it’s been there for over a month. 

“I don’t know, but I thought I had a yeast infection, so I went to the health center and the mean lady doctor told me that she thinks I have herpes and she scraped my vagina and it hurt really bad.” I barely finish before completely breaking down into inaudible mumbling. The “pimple” above his lip. He went down on me last week. Is that how this happened? I got an STD over some mediocre head?

“Do you think you got it from me? I don’t think I have it, and we haven’t even had sex. I’m so confused. I’ll go in and get tested next week if it’ll make you feel better. But we’re gonna be okay, I promise. This doesn’t change the way I feel about you.” I can’t help but wonder if he would feel differently if this wasn’t his fault. But I guess it’s my fault too. Or is it? 

The next week, Leo goes into the health center to get his sore tested.*** The mean lady doctor asks him if he “belongs to that girl who came in last week.”

***

Geez, didn’t anyone ever tell her to use a condom? They’re all over the dorm; there’s just no excuse.

***

“Hey sweetie, I’ve been thinking—” Oh lord, this can’t be good “—that maybe we should think about talking to your doctor about going on birth control. You know it can help with your period,” my mother says. What is she talking about? I’ve never had bad periods. 

I’m a sophomore in high school, and I’ve been getting my period since sixth grade. I’ve never complained about my period to my mother, or anyone for that matter, because it’s not that bad. I mostly just use it as an excuse to be lazy and eat chocolate for forty-eight hours. 

This isn’t because of my period. 

I’ve been dating my first serious boyfriend, Dalton, for about six months now. My mother and I have talked about sex before. I wouldn’t say she’s exactly sex positive, but she is transparent. I vividly recall a conversation with her in which, in an effort to express her views on pre-marital sex, she told me that she and my father didn’t wait until marriage ew. We didn’t have an official “the birds and the bees” talk, but I knew I could ask her questions if there were things I wanted to know. 

“Sure, Mom, I’d be open to starting birth control.” 

I don’t want to make this any more uncomfortable for either of us than it already is, so I don’t probe about why she thinks now is the time to start birth control, mostly because I suspect I know the answer. I know she’s trying to look out for me even if it is in some weird way. Dalton is a year older than me, and I look older than sixteen. 

I make an appointment with my doctor for the following week, and she prescribes me a generic birth control. My doctor explains that birth control will likely make my periods lighter, clear up my skin, and prevent pregnancy. She even takes the time to explain that my birth control will be ineffective if I am on antibiotics. 

No one ever explains to me that birth control prevents pregnancy but not STDs. 

***

Be careful with her, you know she has something right? 

***

I am very selective about who I share my condition with. I know it sounds dramatic to call it a “condition,” but I have a sexually transmitted disease that I will have for the rest of my life. I have found a partner who accepts me as I am and understands the risk he is assuming by having sex with me. In the future, if I find myself outside of a relationship looking for a meaningless hookup, I will have to share my medical history in order to maintain a clear conscience. It shouldn’t have to be this way. I shouldn’t be expected to handle sex differently from any other responsible, consenting adult, but I am. 

I hope to have children one day and may have to deliver by C-section in order to not pass on my condition to my children, making me 2.7 times more likely to die during childbirth. If delivered vaginally, there is a risk of my hypothetical child contracting a neonatal infection, which can cause lasting damage to the nervous system, mental disability, and in some serious cases, even death. 

I hear people who I would consider to be friends make jokes about STDs—if only they knew. There is a wide misconception that STDs are extremely rare and that only extremely irresponsible people get them. This could not be farther from the truth. According to the CDC, 11.9% of persons ages 14 to 49 have genital herpes and approximately 20% of people in the U.S. have an STD. You may be wondering how this happens. There is one extremely simple explanation: minimal or nonexistent sexual health education in schools. 

In 2018, the CDC estimated that people ages 15 to 24 accounted for almost half of the 26 million new sexually transmitted infections. 

This is preventable.

According to Sexual Education for Social Change (SIECUS) only twenty-nine states mandate sex education. TWENTY-NINE. Thirty-five states require schools to stress abstinence when sex education instruction is provided. Only sixteen states require instruction on condoms or contraception when sex education is provided. SIXTEEN. You may be thinking, Well, this is because parents don’t want their children receiving sex ed, right? 

Incorrect.

According to a 2014 Planned Parenthood survey, 93 percent of parents support having sex education taught in middle school, and 96 percent support having sex education taught in high school. If you’re like me, I found myself asking why this discrepancy exists. And the answer is simple: 

Sexism and homophobia.

We’ve all seen the banana or cucumber or other penis-shaped fruit or vegetable demonstration (probably in a movie) in which it is shown how to properly put on a condom. Have you ever seen a demonstration of how to use a dental dam? Do you even know what a dental dam is? If you were like me and don’t know what this is, it’s a small sheet of latex meant to be used as a barrier when a person with a vagina is receiving oral sex. Despite the fact that women disproportionately bear the long-term effects and are more susceptible to STDs than men, an article by The Atlantic in 2019 reports that, in a study, 93 percent of American women who have had sex have used a condom during sexual intercourse, while only 17 percent have used contraception for oral sex. Although the CDC admits that women are more susceptible, it does not mention dental dams in its list of recommendations for sexual-health education. 

Most days, I don’t even think about the fact that I’m living with herpes. I’m just as careful when having sex as I would be if I didn’t have an STD. But then the weather changes, I am more stressed than usual, someone makes an ignorant comment to my boyfriend, someone makes an insensitive joke about STDs, and I remember. Contracting herpes made my body a public text, something to be commented on, a (true [but irrelevant]) rumor to be spread around the campus of my tiny college. Society has taught people that it is their place to comment on the sex lives of others, to welcome themselves into my bed.