Sex Life

Goodness me, what can I say? The sun is shining, the cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and it seems like everyone I know is getting sick. This same week last year, I was ordered into self-isolation by the B.C. Ministry of Health. Now, I am wondering if I should be the one ordering in.

Switching gears to our regular scheduled programming…

After Theodore made an abrupt exit stage left last fall, I booked in for a two-fifteen appointment at the STI clinic. Sitting cross-legged in the waiting room, I adjusted my K-95 mask and wiped the fog from my lenses. Unlike previous pre-Pandemic years, when the waiting room was crowded with men trying to avoid eye contact with each other, this time I occupied the only chair.

As soon as I could see clearly, I took in all the bright coloured posters plastered across the walls. Taped up between COVID-19 protocol sheets, were advertisements for the latest treatments of HIV, HPV, and a smorgasbord of STI’s. All featuring a diverse group of smiling men, they were same, same but different to the gay hook-up ads lining Davie Street below. Eyeing a complimentary bowl of condoms on the table beside me, I made a mental note to make better life decisions.

“Please, fill out this questionnaire,” the receptionist said, passing me a clipboard and pen. A man in his late seventies with a particular kindness about him, I did not blame him for quickly retreating behind the Plexiglass shielding his desk. Goodness knows the number of infections passing in and out of this space on top of a pandemic to boot.

Flipping through the paperwork before me, I was asked to check a number of ‘yes’ or ‘no’ boxes pertaining to specific details about my sex life. Each time you ticked 'yes' you scored ten points. As I began reading each question, I could not help but feel the gamut of human emotion. At first, I felt excited that, for a brief period of time, I actually had a sex life! I thought back to my second date with Theodore and felt the warmth rise in my chest. That same heat in my heart that lit up at the sight of gorgeous hardcover books and a bottle of French rosé. Then, I remembered the smitten selfie I posted weeks later after buying him a rose from the bodega on Robson.

Returning from the clouds and back to the pen in my hand, I felt my reality shift. Checking yes to a number of questions, I would have typically answered no, my stomach started to drop. Did I do that? I thought to myself, reflecting on question number two. Then, I flashed back to the first time I did that with Theodore, and the five times thereafter. Refusing to check either box, I simply wrote, “only five times.” Having graduated University in 2003 with a 4.1 GPA, I was accustomed to scoring high on examinations. This was one of the few tests I had a taken where the lowest score was clearly the winner.

“Eyeing a complementary bowl of condoms on the table beside me, I made a mental note to make better life decisions.”

I hadn’t even made it half-way through by the time I was caught up in a gigantic shame spiral. Ever since puberty, I have wrestled with two competing thoughts in my head when it comes to sex. One voice sounds like Carson Kressley and cheerleads, “Sex is good for you! Go get em’ Fox! Also, your birthday suit is perfection!” While the other is much more menacing and devious in tone. “SHAME!” it screams, like the hordes to Cersei in that episode of Game of Thrones. “DIE!” I am not a psychologist, but I think this has something to do with my Catholic upbringing - and the fact that I grew up during the peak of an AIDS epidemic.

“Rugged,” I heard a grounding voice in the distance. “You can follow me.”

Taking another seat in a small office, I heard the sound of a door shut behind me.

Having initially signed up on the website for a fifteen-minute express test, I was not at all prepared for what happened next. Usually, when I get tested, I am in-and-out with a blood sample, two swabs, and little to no small talk.  

“How are you this afternoon?” a woman asked me, my vision returning to focus.

Already, I was exhausted by the prospect of having to answer another question.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I lied, before adjusting my mask once again.

“My name is Hannah, and I am the nurse on staff here. This is Tash, who is training with me today, are you okay if they sit in with us?”

I was so caught up in my head, I didn’t even realize there was another person in the room.

“Absolutely,” I lied again.

It is a little-known fact about me; but I am a huge fan of training. Especially when it is done well. I cannot tell you how many times over the years, I have watched bussers blossom into floor managers at the restaurant. Or dishwashers go from scrubbing pots and pans to cooking with them. I already have tears in my eyes just thinking of it.

What I am not a huge fan of, however, is being the lesson.