Madison—IN hindsight, he could’ve been doing out of spite. In hindsight, “she” could’ve been doing it for revenge. But I acted contrary to perfect foresight and well, the rest is history.

I was charging up my new phone, my first nice smart phone, and there was a text on there from an unidentified number. The three-word message sent a jolt straight to my core. It had come in on Saturday, while my old phone was out of commission and I was waiting for the replacement.

“Positive for chlamydia.”

Um, shit. Shit shit shit!

“Who is this?” I clumsily texted back, getting the feel for the new phone as my racing pulse shook my body.

Ethan (not actual name). Just as I suspected. That piece of SHIT! about a month ago, this is the guy who told me, “I’m clean” and I acquiesced because my gas station Trojans were somehow mysteriously absent of lube. If they’re going to malfunction, my oxytocin-laced brain concluded, why even use it? I hadn’t had sex in a few months, but I had had a few drinks and shared a fat doob. And some makeout on the couch to Portishead on vinyl. And I had demanded that he shave. What kind of clueless fuck comes on a first date without shaving? I almost wrote him off then and there, but I really wanted to get laid and he served the purpose. For the next few weeks, too. Ok, he did more than serve the purpose. I think that it was the closest to being sexually satisfied I’ve ever been. But I digress. The fucker just said he gave me chlamydia!

“What did you just text me?”

His response was identical the the original earth-shaking text.

“Are you sure it’s not from someone from after me?”

“Nope, before. I texted you when she texted me.”

Fuming does not even begin to describe the vibes of anger coming off of me at that point. I’m not an angry person. Anger usually does no good. But there was nothing I could do to help it. Rage took hold of me as I fought back tears. Tears of spite and tears of embarrassment. I knew better than to have unprotected sex! I regularly lectured my younger siblings on it! And for months, I’d had unprotected sex with a total of three guys. One whom I realized I could have infected two days before. JESUS!!


And this, from the guy who called me a slut and a whore because I wasn’t monogamous after three weeks of weekend sex. I mean… I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. But he was a small-town Wisconsin boy with what I came to believe was a chip on his shoulder about love. He was a little too sweet to me. But who doesn’t like being called beautiful and sexy often?

“Well, maybe you should keep your mouth shut before you start calling people names. You’re the worst person I’ve ever dated.”

“Sorry, I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.” The NERVE!

“Shut up. You’re not sorry.” I knew I wasn’t going to win an argument with this crazy bastard. The self-educated conspiracy theorist with no formal education and a career in sound and set/stage design.

“We could suck on each other tonight if you want.” OMFG! Unbelievable!

“You are twisted.”

“Is that a no?”


And there you had me. Possibly hoarding the clap and facing telling someone I’d given it to them.

But wait! I’d had a physical a week ago! Of course my doctor, who I told I was recently single, would’ve ordered an STI test! I didn’t remember seeing the results specifically, but I imagined I was reading the test wrong. Of course my upper middle-aged doctor tested me for STIs. But I should call to make sure.

A nurse would call me back, the receptionist said. Ok. Ok. Ok. Breath until then. Fifteen minutes later, an unfamiliar ring met my ears. A nurse. She said she assumed that the doctor had ordered an STI test. She’d check and call me back. Twenty three minutes later, that same ring. No, the doctor did not have you tested. She can get you in at 10:30 tomorrow. I can’t do it at 10:30, I work on the other side of town. You can go to urgent care on the West Side and get tested, do you know where that is? I didn’t, so she told me it was across from the mall. Quite disappointed, I thanked her and hung up, tears in my eyes.

How could this happen to me? I’ve never had an STI before. I was in a relationship for two years before those three guys and I was on the pill and not used to using condoms. They suck, of course, but they suck less that STIs. Jesus. I’d had a bad feeling about it, but in my post-break-up debauch, I had let that slide with the help of a lot of pot and alcohol. I just wanted to have good sexy sex, which was seriously lacking for those two years. And now I was going to pay the price.

I messaged a coworker, asking if she could drive me after work. I knew she’d understand. I had to get this taken care of PRONTO. I had to let the person I slept with last know if he’d been exposed. There were 1.5 hours of work time left before I could go. In the interim, I G-chatted with friends about the situation. One girlfriend, who was leaving the next day for a conference, agreed to take my volunteer shift. She was lovely and listened to my concerns and responded rationally. I also consulted two more friends who were very comfortable talking about sex. Both assured me that it was easy to clear up if I had it at all. I was convinced I did. I deserved it after all. I had asked for it. But the fine ladies got me laughing. And realizing that if the guy I was seeing had a problem with it, well, it was time to cut the wheat from the chafe - a thought I’d been mulling lately.

The weeks-long (five back-to-back weekends, to be exact) consisted of a few awkward first dates, an uneventful second date, the best first date ever (thanks to the crazy bastard), and another good date that ended up smoking a bowl at his fancy condo (all good dates end with a bowl and makeout these days, according to my rule of thumb, just like all cool Eau Clair bands have two drummers) and was followed by Vietnamese takeout and a kinky romp the next night in said condo. Obviously, I had not been in self-preservation mode, as I’m quite busy volunteering, working out, taking a weekly guitar class and jamming Fridays with friends. I was running on empty and no longer able to deny it. Now this!

The work friend gave me a ride and we sat in the waiting room for forty-five minutes before I was called. Leaving the coughing children and feverish young adults behind, I entered an exam room and the older nurse took my information. I gave her a run-down of the situation and explained that I’d just had a physical, but my doctor hadn’t ordered STI tests. I used to work with her. I’m surprised she’s not retired, the nurse, who was no spring chicken herself, relayed. No symptoms, though? she asked. No, I replied. Not a one.

I took of the bottom half of my outfit after the nurse left the room and wrapped a sheet around it. The middle-aged Latina doctor entered with a relaxed and comforting bedside manner. I gave her the story and she inserted the speculum and did some swabbing. Somehow she placed the swabs in the wrong lab tubes and had to call out for replacements and do it again. Lovely. The doctor remarked that it didn’t look like I had the signs of an infection. That was slightly comforting.
I was under the impression that I could wait for the lab results and be prescribed antibiotics on the spot. Then I could bus to tell the guy and hopefully he wouldn’t hate me. Fingers crossed. But no, the doctor told me, maybe preliminary results would be in the next afternoon? Call around 4. Twenty-four excruciating, coming-to-terms hours later, I called at 3:45. What kind of test was it? the receptionist had the nerve to ask. To which I replied, through gritted teeth in the less-used office bathroom, STD.

They’re still in progress, she informed me. Try back around six. Which I did. And they said to call back around 11 the next day. At this point, I smoked some weed. I hadn’t for about 3 days. Just to clear my head. I wasn’t feeling myself, even before the clap scare. I’d been indulging too much. I’d been trying to rest and relax, but I am not skilled in that department. Sex helps. Weed helps. And it helped a lot that night as I had a very special heart-to-brain with myself and my Moleskine on the 3 bus toward my guitar lesson on campus. Guitar, that thing I’d never had time to get good at. For about 6 weeks until that point, I’d was busy being wined and dined in my hobby pursuing time.

But I realized, this is not me. I am an artistic, productive person. I will not feel satisfied if I keep this up. I will no longer be able to ignore my dissatisfaction and I will be twice as angry with myself if I don’t do something about it now.

The guy I’m seeing… aka having sexy time with… is technically “out of my league” socioeconomically. What’s more, I really don’t like him that much. He’s outgoing and hot and pays for everything and has a nice condo. But he’s also superficial, shallow, and talks about his romantic exploits nonchalantly in my presence. Also, as I’ve been putting it kindly, he’s the least feminist guy I’ve ever dated. He’s machista, raised in a religious partriarchal kind of way. I think everyone just wants to be loved and appreciated, so I do my best to love and appreciate people. But I do it to a fault. I want to help people “see the light,” but I can’t do it to the point of my own detriment. I’d like to, don’t get my wrong. That’s totally my instinct. I have a bad habit of wanting to nurture men, believing they will see the light and reciprocate. That actually happened to me with my ex - he loved me and it taught me to love. He never gave up, but I have. It has yet to work out the way I plan.

So I need to love and appreciate myself first and foremost. I will attract good friends and lovers if I go about my life with loving kindness. I would do most anything unconditionally to make someone happy. I’m finding that’s rare in males, at least. It’s ok. I’m learning important lessons.

Anyway, two days later and I’m clap-free, but full of appreciation for the experience I had getting that confirmation.

Also, I later found out that “the clap” is a moniker for gonorrhea, which I also don’t have! Saying “the clap,” however, is hilarious when pitted against the possibility of carrying it.

Vintage Dating

Methinks it’s time to start dating old dudes. I know that’s a bit of a stretch in Madison, where people tend to get hitched and pop out babies sooner than many other metropolitan areas (is Madison a metropolitan area?). But I believe there are old dudes out there that want to date me. By old, I’m talking, oh, 10-15 years older than me. Mind you, they must be well-kempt. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean an unhealthy lifestyle is permissible in my dating book.

I dated an older guy once. I was 23, he was 37. He was British, and the colleague of a friend’s husband. They both worked for the only bank that didn’t get hit hard in the financial crisis (this was in the midst of said crisis… wait, is that still going on?). This guy was nice-looking, though had a bit of a beer belly, but he was British, so that kind of canceled it out. He had a nice shared apartment across the river from the city I lived in/where he worked. He also had a nice place further west in that state by a river in a charming little community, where he spent weekends and I tagged along on a few occasions.

This dude was grateful, but not overly so, to be sleeping with a younger chick. He did it well. I’m quite certain he was on Viagra, which was totally fine with me. He was upfront and told me he was sleeping with other people and going through a divorce. He was an expert at going Downtown Julie Brown. He liked good food and didn’t mind paying for it. He respected my opinion and often mined my brain for ideas on music, books, and other fun stuff the kids like.

I eventually got tired of this situation. At 23, I realized that it was an empty relationship and I’d rather have one with an emotional aspect, not just awesome boning. Yes, I was mature for my years. However, a few years older, I think it’s time to give the greyhairs another go-round, as the Brit would say.

Why? Well… Let’s just say that the guys I’m dating 5-7 years my senior haven’t been that impressive in a few ways. Let’s face it, many - not all, ok? - men these days have Peter Pan Syndrome, which I like to refer to as Entourage Syndrome. They are not going to grow up. They’re like teenagers in men’s bodies. They can’t handle intelligent women. They don’t believe that an intelligent, attractive woman could exist. They want to get in a pissing match/battle of the minds to prove their dominance. Big turnoff, insecure sirs!

Older guys (as long as they don’t have kids - that’s another story entirely) tend to be much more settled in their life in general. They have more relationship experience. They have more LIFE experience, which is a big turn on. They know they can’t change you and don’t want to. They appreciate the fact that they get to spend time with such a hot young piece. They have more experience in the boudior, hopefully. It’s just a chiller experience in general. Old dudes know that life is too short to play games.

Hail thee, old dudes. Fill your Viagra prescription, I’m coming for you.

Now does anyone know how to change your preferred age range on OKCupid? I can’t figure it out!!

SO, singles, do you date older on purpose? What age range and why? What are the pros/cons of the situation?

I’ve been sleeping with this guy for a few weeks. I have been thinking of him as a jerk the whole time. But the sex is good. I told him I didn’t want a relationship (though it should be noted that I was asked this in a bit of a fog post-coitally and I didn’t really understand if he meant a relationship with him or in general. Let it be noted that my gut reaction was to say “No!” and continue my story). So he talks to me about the other girls he’s seeing/seem. I don’t think he tells me about all of them. Just the ones that he meets that aren’t much to talk about.

At first, I thought he was trying to make me jealous or that he had a big ego/superiority complex. Then I started disliking him for it. I would say nothing in response to these stories. Then, the other night as he was cooking dinner, and after a story or two, I said… “Do you tell all the girls you’re seeing about your dates?” I had been sitting there pissed off and before a few sips of wine loosened my tongue. SO SICK of hearing this guy talk about this!

His response was impressively forthright: “You said you didn’t want a relationship, you don’t seem like the jealous type, and dating is kind of my hobby, so I talk about it.”

And then I realized that the problem had been mine all along. He was just being open. I was projecting my feelings on him. I was mad at him for not being sweeter to me, not treating me like someone he was interested in. But that is actually what I had been doing to him. I’d built up this scenario in my head where he was a jerk and I didn’t know if it was worth putting up with for the sex because he was unworthy of my attention. But when I stopped giving him the third degree, the situation suddenly became clear.

I was the one with the problem. And I’m free to leave the situation anytime I want. But he’s interesting, so I think I’ll stick around for a bit. It’s nothing serious, anyway :)