I think I gave my gf a very rare, non-fatal std. It has some very odd symptoms. She hasn’t noticed yet but I think she will soon enough. What do I do?
Paul, South Oakland
Dude, you got Darren’s Disease.
For my readers who don’t know, I’m something of a Patient Zero in the world of sexually transmitted diseases. I’ve been called a venereal astronaut, a lab-rat lothario, an erotic rocketship, a pioneer on the plains of sexual exploration which is to say I have an STD named after me.
This all began the summer before my junior year at Pitt. I had a Residency at UPMC, working in the Department of Cell Biology and Physiology in the Mail Delivery Department. My duties involved walking around campus, bringing vital medical documents from building to building to exchange envelopes and signatures from important people. Basically a doctor. It was very erotic.
Each delivery on my route came with its own ejaculatory potential, by which I mean the departments were populated with vivacious women at every stop. I was cooed and wooed from all angles by seductresses of all ages. I had my pick of the litter. When I wasn’t rubbing elbows with the voluptuous secretaries, I bumped kneecaps with the looser nurses. It was nonstop. I slept with so many of them that by summer’s end, I could get through an entire afternoon’s deliveries without making eye contact with a single female. It was the dawn of my sexual prime.
It was also the dawn of my not using condoms and the harsh venereal consequences that followed. I learned the valuable lesson that just because a woman works for a hospital doesn’t mean she isn’t a filthy person. In late August, my penis began stinging. By the first day of classes, my pubic hair had uniformly ingrown. I’d later come to know these symptoms as the early stages of Darren’s Disease.
I was prepared to live with the forrest of infected pubis and the hot-sauce-penis, I’m no prude when it comes to bodily pain, but soon my situation worsened. Basically, my penis got dementia, my wires got crossed. Every time I tried to urinate, I ejaculated; every time I was set for orgasm, I peed.
Never mind the awkward faux-pas of having a rib-crushing orgasm at a public urinal or peeing in a girl’s mouth at the end of a blowjob; the pain of cumming flaccid and peeing hard was debilitating. Paul, I know you know what I’m talking about. It feels like your penis is a broken icicle melting in salt, right?
After a week of cum-covered toilet seats and angry, pee-drenched women, I finally went to the doctor for a cure. Needless to say, he hadn’t seen anything like it before. “Holy hell,” I believe he laughed.
“Perhaps my seasonal bout of promiscuity has concocted in me a cocktail of erotic infection,” I explained, “a sort of hybrid Super-TD expressed in stinging peeholes, pubic acne and some kind of Freaky Friday rendition of penal function.”
He said “what?” then prescribed me antibiotics, scheduled me for some tests, and told me to “keep it in the pants for a while.”
Those were dark months. When I wasn’t in bed, staving off urges of auto-castration, I spent my afternoons at the hospital being prodded with needles and genital x-rays by some of the very nurses who infected me with this tragic, biblical affliction in the first place. It was unspeakably unsexy, but I knew this was my cross to bear: fighting infection in the company of my infectors, balls the blue of the bluest color blue, paying my dues for a sinful summerful of profound sexual excellence.
“You play with fire, you get all kindsa diseases” my cousin Brandon told me.
The tests found nothing medically wrong with my penis and by Thanksgiving, I was peeing and cumming totally separately and on purpose. Sure, my campus reputation took a brief hit, but those same jilted nurses who spread the rumors were also spreading an infant STD with my name on it. I think it’s likely, Paul, that your unnamed, very rare, non-fatal STD is the great granddaughter of Darren’s Disease. And as much as I’m sympathetic, I feel a strange pride in knowing that she’s still kicking around South Oakland, confusing women and destroying the lives of college-age males.
As for your specific problem Paul, don’t worry about it. Women couldn’t get Darren’s Disease if they tried. It’s a masculine affliction and seems to lay dormant out of respect for estrogen, much like its namesake. If you’re still peeing in her mouth at the end of every blowjob, I found that some women mistake it for an extremely large, unhealthy ejaculation, which can be a turn-on if you play it right. Whatever you do, don’t fret too hard.
STDs are signs of a life well-lived. STDs are battle scars. STDs are the tatters in a tattered flag. They’re a testament to your joie-de-vie. They’re a misdemeanor on a rap sheet. They’re the stuff that “doesn’t kill you” as the old saying goes. STDs are an invisible tattoo on your personality that tells the world that you’re much more than simply alive, you are LIVING. Amoxicillin works!