Dating a partner with herpes Sexchat belond
I’m not sure I would have done the same in your shoes.” “No? Still, I had always been boy crazy, craved penetration from the moment I first learned how good a finger felt. Images of worst-case scenario, untreated venereal diseases were projected on the whiteboard, and we girls let out disgusted squeals. With the existential and physical crisis of herpes on my mind, suddenly, I heard everyone talking about it, the way everyone always seems to be using a word you just learned.
There was no sex that night, and I was practically a virgin. The single unit of sex-ed at my private high school consisted of a Power Point presentation given by a dance teacher, whom none of us presumed to have ever been screwed in her life. That night, I told my roommate my wild fear: that I had herpes. “Do I really have to tell every single partner for the rest of my life? There was no point in building a relationship, no matter how brief, on omission.
And then, definitely aloud: “I have herpes.” Silence. “But before you freak out,” I said as casually as I could, “let me tell you about it.” “The transmission risks are tiny,” I started, and they are: about 2–4 percent from woman to man, depending on condom use. I’d worry about how to escape this foreign part of Brooklyn later. Bye then,” I said, stepping toward him, him, a body shellshocked on the bed. So I made a sort of ill-informed compromise with my sexual cravings: everything but. Down there, I looked and felt the same as I always had. And then one day at the office I met him, a tall, dark-haired, sunkissed drink of coworker water. Thanks to herpes, I took things slow, until the temptation to make things NSFW grew too strong.
I untwined my legs and sat up, hopped off the bed, and picked up my underwear. This was always the weirdest part: negotiating a leave. Pictures of the clap danced in my head whenever I had penetration to consider, even in college. The nurse, a bespectacled woman with short hair and a slight waddle, delved into the center of my spreadeagle. “Well,” she said lightly after I had tied my paper gown, “it looks like someone was a little overzealous down there! I had educated myself about STIs and the medicines available to fight them; the whiteboard images of unchecked disease were erased. The first time I told a man, I couldn’t help but cry. The second time, we — a different he — were stoned. The Conversation continued to ruin my life after dark; disclosure brought the othering I had dreaded. I felt more fragile and powerful and worthy of careful handling than ever. Instead, it became a filter for expendable men in my life.
But as I dashed down his stairs and into the night, I felt exhilarated.
Here was someone I had kissed, dated, and genuinely liked.
After going through the normal flip out and that my dating life would now consist of Ben and Jerry’s and DVD’s every Saturday night, I’m ready to get out there again.
The question is how do you explain this to someone else who is freaked out by this kind of stuff? I think the best answer is to treat your condition matter-of-factly.
Just another house party hookup, with a casually consistent partner for whom I felt nothing. “Come see me again if things get worse,” she said, shooing me out the door. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t be strong enough to take the type of rejection that I figured was in store for me. But I knew deep down that I’d want to disclose to my partners.
If I felt stigmatized by my computer, how many hundreds of exponents worse would it be to tell someone I cared about, face to face? I’d just join a nunnery, or maybe devote my sexless lifetime to a more constructive pursuit, like academia or woodworking. I polled my closest friends, who varied in their advice. The odds were too low to even consider it a big deal, she said, especially if I never have another outbreak. So many people have herpes and HPV and gonorrhea without ever knowing it.
In their dating persona test, one of the questions reads “If you have any STI’s, please go here.” The link opens a competing online dating site.
Hysterical, I called my nurse, who ordered a cab for me. Even Ok Cupid had turned on my new quarantined clan.
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“And one in four or five people have it, even though most people don’t know since a standard STI test doesn’t test for it,” I said. In short, herpes hasn’t had such a significant impact on my life. I thought if I kept it light and perfunctory, his reaction might not be so bad. Ever since I had said the word, his hand had frozen on my stomach, started to sweat. Like he had many times before, the boy from the party went down on me. Right away, the scene of the crime was burning, sore, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before. That’s when I realized I was picking the wrong men. As we waited for our results, we giggled conspiratorially, stuffing little packets of lube from the fishbowl into our pockets.