The Test

After two years of City MD visits (when I was still on my parents’ insurance, that is), I decided that I needed to find my own, full-time doctor.

I made an appointment with Dr. L, whose office was in Hell’s Kitchen. She was young, she was cute and most importantly she was a woman—I’m not sure why, but I prefer to be treated by a female doctor. Maybe because I feel safe that they know what they’re doing.

For my first appointment, I wanted to run a full STD test. I hadn’t done one in at least three months, so it seemed the perfect way to get acquainted. Hi, nice to meet you, do I have gonorrhea?

After the nurses took my blood pressure and weighed me, she came into the office and sat down. “So,” she jumped right in, “have you always been underweight?”

“Oh my God,” I gushed, “thank you so much.” She peered up at me over her clipboard, unsmiling. My face grew hot. “Uhm, yeah, I guess I’ve always been smaller. Gotta keep fit for the ladies, am I right?” She still didn’t smile, despite the obvious fact that I’m a homosexual—I was all done up in a hot pink Ralph Lauren polo, hot pink gingham shorts and red leather Persian slippers for God’s sake.

She went through her notes, insisted on setting up a physical the next month to make sure I wasn’t malnourished or something, then had the nurses come and take a blood and urine sample.

The next week, a Friday before a three-day weekend, I got a call. “Hey Ian-Michael, it’s Dr. L.”

“Hey! What’s going on?”

“We got your test results. Everything is fine, except you have chlamydia. No big deal, but I had a prescription faxed to your pharmacy so you could get it before they’re closed until Tuesday.”

“Um.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I have chlamydia?”

“It’s common for men not to show symptoms. Just take the pill, don’t drink any alcohol and it’ll be gone.”

“But…isn’t chlamydia a women’s disease?” I could practically see her peering at me through the phone. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just surprised.”

“Just get the prescription filled. It’ll go away in a few days.”

I took the pill, then went on a journey through my last two month’s sexual history. Who did I have sex with? Who did I fool around with? Who gave it to me? Did I give it to anyone?

In the end, I decided that it didn’t matter who I got it from. I told anyone who as much as put their mouth on my dick that I had it (a task indeed), and resolved to stay celibate—for a week, anyway. But I had no idea how I’d be able to go the next week without a fucking drink.

Exit mobile version