(Published in Konk Life 2/9/12)

I suppose this issue of Konk Life could be considered the Valentine issue, so I’m going to share my tale of lust gone bad. If you read my column in Key West the Newspaper, you know that I’m pretty anti-Valentine’s Day, and I’ve shared my February 14^th highs and lows.

But I haven’t shared the lowest of the low. Worst VD (pun intended) ever.

First, I’ll give you some background. When I was younger, on the one hand, I wanted a boyfriend, but on the other, I didn’t want to settle down. I wanted to experience lots of sex with lots of different guys so that when it came time to settle down, I wouldn’t have to feel like I was missing out on anything.

Ironically, I have never settled down, but that’s an issue for a whole other column. Or a shrink. Or just a reason to break out a case of champagne.

But on this particular VD back around 1991, there was no cork popping. I was away at college and really just desperate for a bar that wouldn’t heavily scrutinize my fake ID. I had to drown my shame and embarrassment. I wanted to feel numb and forget the fact that, that very morning, my ex-hometown booty call (well, back in those days we called it “friend with an option”) called to tell me that I had given him an STD.

Being just a booty call, we weren’t exclusive so I don’t know how he had narrowed me down as the culprit. The gist was that he had a new girlfriend. A NICE girl. She had some unfortunate symptoms which were diagnosed as an STD. Honestly I can’t even remember what it was at this point. Maybe the clap. Or the other one that would make you go insane if it went undiagnosed. Syphilis?

But the point was that she was NICE and so he must have given it to her because I gave it to him. It was awesome that this was a Sunday morning so I couldn’t even make an emergency visit to Planned Parenthood. There was no internet to search for symptoms. I had to wait until Monday to call, and even when I described the urgency of the appointment, they still couldn’t see me for a few more days.

So on that Sunday I went to lunch with my best friend, watching all the couples in love, and wondered what kind of poison was roiling through my body. Would the treatment hurt? Would I actually have to call other conquests (as if I even had phone numbers!) to tell them to get checked out?

It was all so humiliating. But when he called I just took it. I didn’t even remind him that he was just a big man-whore and that if I had something it was because he gave it to me. I just said I’d get checked out.

Finally, after the longest four day wait ever, I had my appointment. I got tested for everything. I had nothing. NOTHING!

I called the motherfucker back and on his answering machine, which he shared with three roommates, went on about how my doctor gave me a clean bill of health, and that he was the STD carrier. Oh, wait. Perhaps his NICE new girlfriend wasn’t as innocent as he thought.

A year later I was still really pissed (I don’t forgive OR forget), so when my bestie and I went home on spring break, we got drunk, drove (naturally) to his apartment in the middle of the night, and plastered his car with really really stupid bumper stickers we’d collected at Stuckey’s restaurants and rest stops on our drive back from college.

Although by no means vindication, it felt good.

Still, perhaps I won’t answer my phone this February 14^th.