Contracting An STI Taught Me To Trade Assumptions for Possibilities

I was 17 the first time I had sex.

In the five years leading up to that, I would spend countless hours speculating how it’d unfold and worrying if I’d be prepared enough. “Will it hurt? Will it be weird? Am I supposed to do something? Move? Talk? Just moan? Help!!”. One thing was very clear, it would be protected. Mom and dad told me one too many times about condoms, and assured me those would keep me child and STI free as long as I would keep using them. Cool. Easy. Deal!

Fast forward to a few years of additional sexual experience under my belt.

I’ve been pretty good at practicing the golden rule I held as a north star throughout the nights I would spend in good company. Yet I wake up one morning feeling a strange discomfort in my groin and a tiredness that would keep me in bed for the following five days. The discomfort turns into a burning sensation when I pee. The burning sensation turns into an eruption of tiny bumps here and there on my vulva. I panic. “WHAT THE F*** IS GOING ON” I think.

Long, long story short: herpes is what’s going on.

But an STI — let alone a herpes diagnosis comes with much more than medical knowledge about the condition. I felt a wave of confusion and deep insecurities, and since HSV is incurable I knew these struggles would likely stick with me for a while. Processing all of that was more than I emotionally could afford at the time, and so just like that I checked out.

I deny my diagnosis to myself, I skip disclosing to my partners.

For the following couple years, every sexual encounter is followed by guilt, then shame, then excuses, then guilt again and finally back to denial. Herpes feels like a heavy baggage I can’t ask anyone to help me carry. Is there a way to accept my diagnosis that wouldn't mean giving up on my sex life? Being responsible about my status and still expecting to have a sex life is like wanting to have the cake and eat it too. And let me tell you, we’re talking about a very small piece of cake here! Goodbye casual relationships. So long potential one night stands and “go with the flow” nights. I see the horizons of my sex life dissipating into a single grey line of long term relationship (dare I say relationships?) where partners would only take off their pants after I’d sworn to love them for the rest of my life.

Turns out, I was wrong.

After a fun tete a tete that concludes our third date, Jon and I decide to take a walk to digest the terrific meal we had indulged in. I want him, but I don’t want the guilt associated with having him on my secretive terms. Before arriving at his front door, I gather all the liquid courage I sipped over dinner and as casually as I can, drop a:

“listen”.

There’s no turning back from there, yet I feel strangely excited to sabotage the dishonesty I would typically resort to.

“I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in this situation before but I happen to have herpes, and while I’m on suppressive therapy and don’t currently have an outbreak, I just wanted to let you know and let you decide how you want to go about it”.

He looks at me for what felt like an eternity, and says “ok”.

I’ve never disclosed my status to a partner before having sex and am now in a “hmmm — brain freeze — huh?!” state of mind where two simple letters don’t add up to a familiar word. Ok. Ok as in “gotcha! See ya!”? Ok, as in “I’m gonna need a minute here”?? Ok as in “Everybody has herpes, NBD! ”?

Ok… AND???

“I’m sure I’ve been exposed to it in the past anyways” he continues, with a surprisingly calm voice that catches me off guard. “Anything else we should use, besides condoms?”

A brief moment of anxiety reminiscing those of my pre-sexually active life makes me question whether I am ready for this, but I proceed to shake my head no regardless. He kisses me, takes me by the hand and starts walking up the stairs that would take us to his place. He didn’t try to secure any further commitment than the night we were about to spend together. Neither did I. Sex didn’t turn out to be particularly good, nor different from any other past intercourse but I knew right away good sex wasn’t what I would have remembered anyways.

That encounter remains iconic because for the first time since contracting herpes, I allowed hope to tame my fears. By wholeheartedly veni vidi vici-ing that night, every single minute felt like a victory over my assumption that having fun and having herpes could never coexist.

Thanks, Jon. I owe you one.

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