It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was driving back to Bertucci's after delivering four large pizzas to a birthday party. As I got out of my car, a pack of six-year-old boys nearly tackled me to the ground to get at their pies. That same day O.J. Simpson had just been accused of murdering his wife and her lover. There was a general sense of violence and turmoil in the air.
        That was when my penis started to burn.
        When I got back to the restaurant, I bee-lined it to the bathroom. My boss, Rich, stopped me. He was a pear-shaped man with a thin moustache and a lisp. Rich was one of those guys with a girlfriend who he talked about incessantly, but she never actually materialized. "Where are you going, Ham? You have another delivery," Rich said, rolling out dough like he was kneading firm male buttocks.
         "I need to use the bathroom." I hurried past him.
         "Well, make it thnappy," Rich warned.
         I didn't say anything. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I unzipped my pants. The tip of my penis was stuck to my boxer shorts by a sticky, clear fluid and there was some bluish lint around the hole. After a few minutes of poking, scratching and prodding, I attempted to urinate.
        A co-worker later told me that the entire restaurant heard me scream. It felt as if I were passing boiling water through my urethra. I clutched the toilet seat, my knuckles white, and grinded my teeth together. After a couple of small tinkles, I stopped trying.
         There was a knock at the door. "Ham, are you all right?" Rich asked.
         "Yeah…um. Yeah. I just saw a spider. They scare me." I was buckled over in agony, and, worst of all, I still had to piss.
         "Well make it thnappy. These people need their pizzthas before their lunch ith over."
        At the time, I wasn't familiar with the symptoms. I slept through health class in high school because I never imagined I'd be having sex, much less contracting a sexually transmitted disease. But it doesn't take a doctor to figure out that something is terribly wrong when your penis is dripping with goopy discharge and your urine feels like it's being shot from a flamethrower.
         I delivered the pizzas then went back and told Rich there was an emergency and I had to leave.
        And that's exactly where I went--the emergency room.

* * *         I was living with my parents that summer.
        When I left school in May, things had just started to improve. First of all, I joined a fraternity, which allowed me to scrape together a social life. But even more impressively, I found a girlfriend--a good-looking one with a long black hair and a tight body. Granted, Patty wasn't exactly discriminating when it came to choosing her male partners and had a reputation on campus for being an easy lay, but that was immaterial. The important thing was that she was of female persuasion and had agreed--on her own volition--to become the first girl to ever to be tagged with the label "Ham's chick."
        I was convinced that the driving force

"It started to occur to me that there was such a thing as fate, some cosmic card game being played in backrooms of the human experience. Some men always got dealt the good hands, and others, like myself, had to rely on bluffing, holding out for that one hand which may or may not ever come."

behind my social strides was my hair. It was starting to grow long, and I could almost pull it back into a ponytail, like Antonio Benderez. In fact, sometimes I'd stand in front of my bedroom mirror, pull my hair back with my hands, and pretend I was a Latin sex machine--gyrating my thin hips for a crowd of imaginary lady admirers.
        I made the mistake of stopping home and telling my parents that I was going to the emergency room before I went, seeing I was still on their insurance. They were sitting in the living room, watching the police chase O.J. and his friend Los Angeles.
         "Mom, Dad, I need to go to the emergency room," I said standing between them and the television.
        My mother, a fragile God-fearing neurotic, gasped when I told her. "Oh, dear Jesus. What's wrong, honey? Are you all right? You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" She stood up and pressed the back of her hand against my forehead. "Oh, Mother Mary, you feel warm."
         "Mom, I'm fine."
        My father rolled his eyes. He was a lifelong Republican who worked for the phone company for forty years. The man had worn a crew cut since birth, and my long hair had become a bone of contention in the household. He was one of those loud guys that never changed the volume of his voice. It didn't matter if he was in a church or yelling across a crowded store, he was always vociferous. He looked at my hair, not my face:
         "THAT FRIGGIN' GIRL HAIR IS PROBABLY GROWING INTO HIS BRAIN. THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM," he said to my mother.
        My mother ignored him. "What's wrong, Ham? Why do you need a doctor? Have you tried praying?" My mother held my wrist. "I can get my rosary. "
         "No, Mom. It's something else," I said. "My… how do I say this? My pee burns. Real bad."
         "IT'S PROBABLY FROM SMOKING GRASS." The hippie movement had passed over my father, and he blamed every social, political or medical problem in the world on marijuana.
         "Listen, I'm just going to check out, all right? It's probably nothing. I'll be back in a couple of hours," I said.
         "We're coming with you. Just give me a minute to get my rosary." My mother left the room before I could stop her.
        I was standing in the living room with my father, who was eying my hair and shaking his head.
         "Dad, you guys don't really have to come. Seriously. Why don't you stay home?"
         "I KNOW THEY HAVE CLIPPERS AT THE HOSPITAL. ONE TIME WHEN I TOOK A NAIL GUN TO THIGH, THEY HAD TO SHAVE MY BALLS TO STITCH IT. WHY DON'T YOU GET A HAIRCUT WHILE YOU'RE THERE?"
         "Dad, seriously…"
         "MAYBE IF YOU GOT RID OF THAT DAMN GIRL HAIR YOU WOULDN'T HAVE THESE PROBLEMS, LIKE BURNING PISS. CHRIST, SON, SUCK IT UP. BE A MAN."
         It was pointless.

* * *         It didn't take the doctor long to see me. He was a tall, lanky man without an upper lip or much of a personality. As I described my symptoms, he nodded his head--typical E.R. bedside manner.
         "Have you had unprotected sex recently?" He asked the question without looking up from his clipboard and without inflection, as if he were reading from a script.
         "Um…well, just with my girlfriend." I neglected to tell him that my girlfriend had once slept with an entire rock band. Granted, they were just a college band trying to make a few extra bucks playing Pearl Jam covers, but nonetheless.
         "Take down your shorts and let me have a look."
        I slipped off my boxers and lay back on the examination table. The doctor put on a rubber glove and examined my prick, which had shrunken down to the size of an elbow noodle. "It looks like you got some discharge there. I'm going to run a few tests."
         "What about the burning pee?"
         "We're going to run some tests."
        He opened the curtain and left. I sat there, cursing my crappy luck. Patty was only the third girl I'd been with and my first steady. Some men went their entire lives, sleeping with hundreds of women and never contracting anything from a partner. It started to occur to me that there was such a thing as fate, some cosmic card game being played in backrooms of the human experience. Some men always got dealt the good hands, and others, like myself, had to rely on bluffing, holding out for that one hand which may or may not ever come. And sometimes, as was my case, you got dealt shit and had to face the facts and fold.
         The doctor returned carrying a couple of small glass tubes and a six-inch Q-tip. He asked me to lay back.
         "This may sting a bit," he said.
        He then proceeded to swab my penis hole for what seemed to be two hours as I screamed. After drawing some blood and giving my balls a quick jiggle, he left the room.
        He came back a half an hour later, looking down at the clipboard. "You have chlamydia, Ham."
         "I have what?" I asked.
         "Chlamydia. You need to take penicillin for a week, contact all your recent sexual partners, and tell them to get tested. Any questions?"
         "That's an STD, right?" It was my first. It was as if I had been initiated against my will into some sordid and filthy subset of society. Only dirty people got STD's. I wanted to weep, but I held it back. There would be plenty of time for that later.
         "It's a common one," the doctor said. "Aside from genital warts, it's one of the most common among kids your age. Be sure to finish the antibiotics. And use a condom next time. Most STDs can be prevented by good judgment and common sense." He clapped me on the shoulder, handed me a prescription, and moved on to his next patient.
         I slowly put on my pants, looking one last time at my poor, infectious penis. Aside from being a new member of the Society of the Sexually Transmitted Diseased, I now had the daunting task of telling my parents.
        My mother and father were watching the television mounted in the corner of the waiting room. They both looked at me as I entered. I stared down at my feet.
         "Is everything all right?" my mother asked and braced herself.
        At that moment, I couldn't think of a lie. "I have chlamydia," I whispered. My voice was barely audible.
         "WHAT DID YOU SAY? CLAMS? YOU HAVE THE CLAMS? WHAT THE HELL ARE THE CLAMS?" My father stood up from his seat, his hands on his hips.
        I put my finger to my lips--my face was pale. The ten or so other people in the waiting room were now looking at us. "No, Dad," I whispered again. "I have chlamydia. It's a sexually transmitted disease."
         "Oh, dear God." My mother, with her rosary wrapped around her hand, clutched her chest and began what would end up being fifty consecutive "Hail Mary's".
         "YOU MORON! WHAT TYPE OF GIRLS ARE YOU DATING? ARE YOU SEEING HOOKERS? SEE, I TOLD YOU HE WAS SEEING HOOKERS. ALL THOSE LONG HAIRS, SEEING HOOKERS AND HAVING FREELOVE AND SMOKING GRASS AND WHATNOT. NOW YOU HAVE THE CLAMS! GOOD GOING, DIPSHIT!"
        I was experiencing a shrinking sensation. My father smacked me in the back of the head. "THE FUCKING CLAMS," he said shaking his head with disgust.

* * *         After I came home from the emergency room and my father had exhausted himself screaming at me, I called Patty with the bad news. She was living in upstate New York with her parents for the summer and working as a waitress at a lake resort. Her father answered the phone. Although we'd never met, the man hated me. He was one of those fathers who automatically hated any guy dating his daughter.
         "Hello, sir. Is Patty there please?" I asked in my most obsequious voice.
         "Who wants to know?"
         "This is Ham, sir. Patty's boyfriend."
         "Are you on drugs, son?" For some reason, everyone seemed to think I was doing drugs. Luckily, I was.
         "No, sir. Drugs are for thugs. Right?"
         "Shut up."
         "Yes, sir. May I speak to Patty please?"
        Her father slammed the receiver against a solid, thick object--a kitchen counter or his head. I could hear him calling her in the background. "Patty, some loser that says he's your boyfriend is on the phone!"
        Patty picked up. "Hello?"
         "Hi, Patty. It's me."
         "Hi, sweetie. What's going on?"
         "Is your father still on the phone? I never heard him hang up."
         "Dad, hang up the phone!" There was a growl and a click. "What's wrong?" she asked, responding to the urgency in my voice.
         "It burns when I pee," I said. Instinctively, I grabbed my penis. It comforted me to hold it.
         "What!"
         "I have chlamydia, and the doctor told to me to tell everyone I've slept in the past six months. So I'm telling you."
         Patty was silent. She sighed. "Well, that's not good. Who do you think gave it to you?" Any time one partner in a relationship contracts an STD, it's human nature to assume they got it from someone else. People don't like to consider themselves that dirty.
        I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and began speaking in a slow, clinical tone. "The doctor told me that men typically know within a couple of weeks of contracting it," I said. "They have symptoms like burning piss and clear sticky shit that drips from the tip their dick. Females, however, often don't experience any symptoms. But it's far more dangerous for them. It can attack their reproductive organs, like a bacterial pit bull."
         "Is that what's happened to you?" Patty's voice cracked. She knew. I knew. We both knew she was responsible for the fire in my hole.
         "Yes," I said. "You need to get yourself checked. Or the pit bull..." I took a deep breath. "Jesus, Patty, I'm sorry to have to tell you this."
         "I can't believe it," Patty whispered. "How did this happen?"
         "We got dealt a shit hand, Patty. Shit hand."
         "Are you sure it was me?"
         "Listen, honey, it was good talking to you," I said. "I have to try to piss and scream now."
         "I'll talk to you later, Ham," she said.
         "Give your father my love."
         "I will."
         "Bye."
        We hung up, and I went upstairs to take my first dose of penicillin. I swallowed the pill with a large glass of water and waited.

* * *         There was never a formal break-up. It was more an acquiescence. We didn't speak for the rest of summer. Within days of being on penicillin, the fire had been extinguished. The faucets were turned off and the dripping stopped. I was no longer getting laid, but the filth had cleared. We all make compromises with ourselves.
         The next fall when I returned to college in Vermont and moved into my fraternity house, I avoided Patty. And she avoided me. We both harboured horrible secrets about each other. Other than my parents and the doctor,

"Some guys sleep with hundreds of women and never even get chaffed. Some sleep with one and get HIV. But remember, at least you have something that can be cured with penicillin."

Patty was the only person who knew about the pee fires.
        However, living in the fraternity house presented a precarious situation. There was already a guy living there who had contracted every nonfatal STD in the book and became a walking target for teasing. People called him Trench Mouth, a nickname he acquired after managing to contract trench mouth from a Jersey girl visiting friends for a weekend. The doctors were perplexed because there had been relatively few outbreaks of the disease since World War II.
         Trench Mouth's real name was Mike. He was a tall, slender son of Irish immigrants with reddish hair and prominent features--right green eyes and a chiselled chin. He had an innate Irish charm and gift for banter that made picking up women about as challenging to him as washing his hands. However, he also got a shit deal when it came to STD's. I knew, unless I wanted to end up like Trench Mouth and become the object of daily ridicule, I had to keep quiet about Patty and the fire in my hole. It was vital that no one find out.

* * *         Patty and I were successful in avoiding each other until the night of my fraternity's annual toga party. She showed up wrapped in a purple bed sheet. At first, we did the adult thing and pretended like we didn't know each other. But as the night wore on and we continued drinking, that changed. The next thing I knew, Patty was in my bed with her legs spread and a pair of red panties dangling from her ankle.
         "Do you have a condom?" She panted and grabbed my cock.
        I leapt up naked with an erection and ransacked my bedroom for a condom. The underwear drawer where I usually kept them was empty. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. "I don't have any," I said, exasperated.
         "Shit," Patty said, pulling me on top of her.
         "You got that thing taken care of this summer, right?" I asked and was inside her before she could respond.
         "Of course."

* * *         A week later, I woke up and walked groggily to the bathroom. I stood in front of the toilet, rubbing my eyes. At first I couldn't get a steady stream flowing. Then I felt the firewater started making its familiar path through my urethra. I screamed, clutching the toilet seat. When I got out of the bathroom, Trench Mouth was standing outside the door with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
         "What the hell is wrong with you?" Trench Mouth asked, grinning.
         "Nothing," I said, "I stepped on a nail."
         "Sure didn't sound like it." He lit the cigarette. "I know that scream. You got a case of the nasties, huh?"
         "Fuck you," I spat under my breath.
         "Come on. Get dressed," he said, patting me on the back. "Let's go get some coffee then I'll take you to the infirmary."
        I kicked the floor miserably. "Ah, all right," I said and went to my bedroom to put on jeans.
        Trench Mouth drove a rusted out blue 1978 Pinto, one of the last on the road. The radio was broken, so the only sound--other conversations in the car--was the clinking and chugging of four enervated cylinders. He had the window half-open, smoking a cigarette. "Your first time?" he asked.
         "What do you mean?"
         "With the nasties," he said and shifted his eyes to look at me. "I remember the first time I woke up with the burns, I thought I was going to pass out. Had no idea what it was." He smiled, as if the memory was nostalgic, bringing him back to a time that wasn't completely unpleasant.
         "I got it this summer," I said sharply. Actually admitting it to someone else felt good-- liberating. I continued, "I got chlamydia from the girl I was dating. Then I ended up hooking up with her again at the toga party."
         "And you didn't wrap it?"
         "Nope."
         "Man, I remember one time I got the Clap and the crabs from the same girl. I was itching and howling and rolling on the floor. Can imagine what it's like to go to the doctor with both? He didn't even say anything to me. Just looked disgusted and gave me some pills and shampoo. Said nothing."
        I laughed a little and looked at Trench Mouth. "Can I ask you a personal questions?"
         "Sure."
         "How many times have you got an STD?"
        Trench Mouth paused and seemed to be counting in his head. "Let's see. I've got the Clap three times, the crabs twice, chlamydia once, and, well, you only get warts once. But I've never gotten herpes, thank God… what is that? Seven?"
        I nodded slowly and stared out the window at the Green Mountains quiet on the horizon. Trench Mouth offered me a cigarette, and even though I didn't smoke, I took it. I lit the end, coughed and asked, "How many chicks have you nailed?"
         "Oh, God," Trench Mouth laughed. "At least forty."
         I did some quick math in my head. Trench Mouth had been with forty girls and contracted seven STD's. I'd been with three and was already on my second time around with chlamydia. I shook my head. Shit deal. "I've been with three," I said.
        Trench Mouth nodded and dragged on his cigarette. "That sucks, Ham. Some guys sleep with hundreds of women and never even get chaffed. Some sleep with one and get HIV. But remember, at least you have something that can be cured with penicillin."         I thought about it, and he was right. The hand could be worse. "Thanks, Mike," I said.
         "No problem," he said, putting on his blinker and turning into Dunkin Donuts.
        I sighed--for the both of us--then turned to him again. "Let me buy the coffee," I said.
         "If you insist."
         "I insist."

© Nathan Graziano 2004. Back to Top