The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, Part Five

An old painting, but apt. <3

It was such a pleasant weekend but I’m antsy to get back to the story, anxious for the part where the paragraphs drop me back in 2019, on a few-weeks-ago bright spring day in a nearby city, surrounded by people with fancy dogs and deeply curated outfits, pleasantly arguing with Sweetie (Still ex-wife, now freakishly close best friend and co-aunt) whether I was stopping to take pictures of forsythias or just boring yellow leaves.

While driving toward family for Easter, Sweetie and I decided to play YouTube DJ, with the rule that we could only pick fun-to-sing but wholly undignified songs. This led to a lot of belting hair-metal ballads and the over-optimistic decision to swing by my teenhood home. I was curious and it was on the way. I had this idea that it would be healing to be there and see how un-evil the place was, to be there as a strong adult with a reliable car for easy escape. But we hit a bad pothole and a hubcap flew off my pretty car, and Sweetie was worried about the tire.

Even if there hadn’t been car-upset though, the street would have felt rotten and bleak. Not even a couple of Pokéstops could redeem it—that place doesn’t deserve Pokéstops! The sky was trauma-grey and there was no escaping the fact that this was the place where the worst things of my life happened. The little park made me so angry and the old house had been painted a particularly upsetting shade of taupe. It was old-Twilight-Zone creepy there, without the fun or charm. I fucking hate that block, I hate that I’ve spent so much therapy time on it, I hate it, hate it hate it.

The magical thinking of mental illness clicked in and I thought I had broken my lovely car by getting curious about this awful place, but the tire was fine and if I want a new hubcap, the guy at the car place is very cute. Nieces and nephews several towns over broke the spell of the bad street, my youngest nephew chose a Captain Marvel book on our traditional comic shop visit, and all was well.

Back in the nineties, it’s still that summer. I’m pining and waiting for the mail—which, now that I think about it, was my default state for the ensuing ten years. I loved the feeling that someone cute was going to send you a card or a letter or a mix tape, sometimes they even still do.

Far more painful than the pining were the long and painful treatments for STIs—who knows if I got them consensually or not, I guess it doesn’t matter. The doctor was a harsh and judgmental old man, gouging and pinching away at the hurts, freezing my insides to try and heal them. There were big, intimidating, emphatic antibiotic pills. My mom was there with me for all of it, and, though we’ve spent big chunks of our lives at odds, for this, she was kind.

Once, after a particularly harsh doctor’s visit, I was walking in town and heard kids yelling “Slut!” out of a pickup truck at me. The summer was half ugly insult, half beautiful dream.

When school started again in the fall, everyday life settled onto me like a weighted blanket, not in a pleasant way. I gained so much weight (though I’m sure I was teensy compared to today, but this was WAY before Dietland/Roxane Gay/Shrill.) that my drama teacher (No Kate Moss herself) took it upon herself to tell me that I needed new jeans. I remember those jeans, high-waisted and acid-washed to almost white, devolving into a permanent wedgie as I got bigger. I want to say I didn’t care, it seemed like I didn’t, but I seem to remember it a little too vividly.

(This might have also been why I only got the teensiest, tinesiest part in that fall’s Drama Club production, one scream from backstage in a murder mystery. I hate this drama teacher. She also told me I’m too tall to ever be a leading lady, which I guess is true in the patriarchal sense. Fuck that lady though.)

ANYWAY, there was a very bright spot to look forward to! The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow was coming up with Favorite Aunt for the Drama Club production, maybe in early October. In anticipation, still glowing with love about the pillow, I sewed him a shirt.

Objectively, this shirt was probably pretty hideous. I LOVED fabrics that made not sense back then, I really kind of still do. It was aqua blue, light green, and purple, with a large and semi-realistic-looking fish print. (He told me the other week that it also had tiny turtle buttons, a detail I thoroughly enjoy.) It was the most structured thing I ever sewed, with a collar and buttonholes and all kinds of ironing and steps. There is NO WAY I would ever have the patience for all those steps today, good job teenage me.

Screening News: Don't Worry and Keep Kissing

Gold star to me for being such an excellent sex-friend that I spent part of my vacation day getting my hoo-ha up to date. Some tests you have to wait for of course but my good news is that HPV hasn't come back still (it's been almost two years) so it's probably time to stop fussing about that.

I also had a concern that I'd been exposed to HSV 1 (that's the mouth kind) indirectly. (Describing how felt superbraggy!) The nurse practitioner told me not to worry about it, to go ahead and kiss all I want unless I see symptoms. I kind of knew that was the case, but I needed a medical professional to say it to me before proceeding.

Going to celebrate by kicking Sweetie out for the afternoon and having a bunch of personal time--it's been a little while since I really went to town on myself.

A Happy Time at the STI Screening, Who’d’ve Thought?

It occurs to me that because of Planned Parenthood’s low income plan thingie, my hoo-ha’s health is much more up-to-date than the other parts of me. Back in February, I had an incidence of HPV and today I went back for a routine screening and to make sure the HPV symptoms are still gone—hooray, they are! The doctor said that a healthy immune system could get rid of the virus, so I can go ahead and worry about it a little less.

I have a deep fear about being diseased because I went through a lot in that department when I was in high school. Everything was cured, but the experience was tied to a sexual assault and so there was a deep shame about being infected and treated.

Today my doctor, God bless her, said something that seems like it should be obvious but hit me right in the soul:

“It seems like your life is really different now than it was in 1992.”

Yes, and thank you, thank you, thank you. Even if my sex-positive life sometimes feels unmanageable, I am very, very happy and grateful for the way things are turning out to be in 2012.

Etiquette: STI Disclosure and Response

I love reading etiquette, so I figure it’s okay to write some myself. My quest to love and feel safe in my body is a little bit hampered by the fact that three months ago, I was treated for low-risk HPV. I’m not sure how it got in there, since I consider myself a very conscientious haver of sex. In fact, most of the sex I’ve had in the past decade has been with Sweetie, who has only ever been with me.

But still, it happened somehow. It’s a particularly annoying thing to have to disclose, because it isn’t something they usually test for. You can be carrying the virus, but you’d never know unless you have symptoms. Once the symptoms are treated, you don’t really know how long it will take for your immune system to fight off the virus.

But in order to be an ethical player, I have to disclose it. So, as soon as it seems like sex might be on the table, I send this:

“Three months ago, I was treated for low-risk HPV. There're no more symptoms, but there's the chance I could still be carrying the virus. Even with protection, there'd be a little risk.”

The responses that make me feel safe and validated, as opposed to diseased, are the ones that:

1. Thank me for disclosing! It shows that I’m trying to do right by potential partners, and it is a very vulnerable thing to do. It’s great when that is acknowledged.
2. Don’t make a big deal about it.
3. Keep discussions of what we can and can’t do, in the disclose-ee’s estimation, for in-person and closer to the time that they actually become relevant.

It’s hard not to feel like there’s something wrong with me. Even though it’s a very common infection and it’s fairly harmless, it’s hard to fight the teenage slut-shaming feelings that come along with having an STI. A good response goes a long way toward making me feel like my personhood matters.