I had to go to the doctor. You see, I heard that most people have herpes, but I don’t, and that made me feel really left out. Like everyone could talk to each other about herpes, and the time they got herpes, and how much their herpes hurts. But I couldn’t. Then one day I got an itch, down there, and I thought, Cool!
Not really. I actually thought, How’d I get that? Had someone come in the night, ridden my bones and infected me. Wouldn’t I have noticed? Or maybe there’s some sort of bed sheet born herpes, if that’s possible, or do I have some unusual herpes infection exclusive to me? Maybe I have my own brand of herpes. Something unique. Something that makes me special.
Mum says that I’m special already. She often says it in a mental retardation sort of way, but yeah, I could be special with my herpes.
But I couldn’t just rely on this hunch, so I went to the doctor to get it checked out.
One of the first questions she asked was, “So, when was the last time you had sex?” and I didn’t want to tell her because, well, conversations like that just end with someone saying, “Oh, have you tried eHarmony?” (Which is a waste of money by the way. Better to buy a stranger a drink somewhere. You’ll at least get out of the house.)
I just said, “It’s been a while,” and then she looked at my groin, which was a novel experience. The last time someone looked down there was for a tropical wart, and the time before that was probably my Mother changing my dippers. Though I don’t remember her changing them. More so tipping them out and then putting them back on.
Anyway, the doctor said it was bicycle rash and that I just needed to rub in a cream and it would go away.
I asked her to show me how, and she did, and now we’re married.
No. No she didn’t, and I didn’t ask that. She looked to be happily married to some guy in a photo on her desk.
I left with some ointment and no herpes. No, special brand of herpes for me. Just bicycle rash. So I’m not special after all. But I guess that’s a good thing. So a happy ending.