Damn Diseases

I never thought about the word disease until I got one. Disease: dis – ease. In other words lack of ease, ill at ease . . . no ease. Diseases hurt. They transform you from a smooth, magnetic social animal, into a crying, itching outcast. Diseased people spend their time looking around and wondering if now is the perfect time to grab their unmentionables and scratch till kingdom come. My disease gave Jane Fonda’s aerobic rally cry “feel the burn” a whole new meaning. I, in my demented state, consoled myself with the fact that my disease was prettily named with a combination of letters that roll off the tongue unlike those other roughly-named diseases such as gonorrhea and syphilis. For a week, I was actually proud I had gotten chlamydia, not crabs. Chlamydia, I thought, is something I would name my daughter. Could you imagine a child named Herpes? I rest my case.

But I would not have to be here arguing such a ludicrous case if I had never contracted the dis ease in the first place. I used to be a Crusader for Christ, now I’m a crusader for sexual history cards and new topics of conversation. I strongly exhort all fearless sexual explorers to take a few seconds before their next adventure to ascertain a few pertinent facts. Just add some new queries to your most effective line up of starting questions: ‘Do you come here often?’ ‘Do you know what you’re doing to me?’ ‘Do you have any communicable diseases?’

Of course, the verbal method is pretty unreliable in the honest, forthright environments of night clubs and bars where alcohol and marijuana smoke are sure to induce truth-telling. That’s why I’m lobbying for a mandatory sexual-history-card law. These cards, roughly the size of driver’s licenses, will be stuck to people’s foreheads and they will list the wearer’s brushes with sexual dis ease. No more guessing if that ill-placed red splotch is a birth mark or a std. Just ask to see the sexual history card and you can put yourself at ease.

I have nightmares about what the sexual card of my dis ease giver would look like. He probably would have needed twenty cards taped together. Ladies and gentlemen, hear me now, there’s no way skin to skin contact is delicious enough to warrant years of dis ease and discovery of new dis ease. One year after contraction, my chlamydia was mercilessly erased by god knows what substance provided to me by the wise members of the medical community. But the party’s not over. I am now under observation for further developments that may have been passed on by my evil lover. Please note that prior to this unfortunate incident the only itching I had experienced was a mild mosquito bite.

And of course, I now battle new moral questions. ‘If I no longer have the dis ease, do I have to tell people?’ When I did share my unfortunate circumstance with friends, one revealed to me that she had herpes (which NEVER goes away) and another rushed out to get tested for and was diagnosed with the much-loved and cuddled chlamydia (she had been carrying it around for a least five years). Sex cards can help friends as well as lovers. Until they’re institutionalized, however, we must rely on supreme interrogative skills to get the job done. Dental dams and condoms for all! Remember, ending with a condom will prevent pregnancy, but starting with a condom will prevent years of discomfort, discovery and disease. By the way, the bearer of any information leading to the detaining, beating, and public humiliation of the macdaddy who passed my disease on to me will be wonderfully rewarded.