he: “Don’t shout bingo.”
me: (as if trying to make sure I don’t forget) “Don’t shout bingo. Don’t shout bingo. Don’t shout bingo. Don’t shout bingo. Don’t shout bingo. Don’t shout bingo. Don’t shout bingo...”
he: (thinks) “Can I should Yahtzee!?”
This is the story of how I accompanied a friend of mine to the std-clinic.
The Friday before he had told me he thought he had a urinary tract infection. “I had a female friend with a UTI and the only thing that worked was cranberry juice. So I drank a liter of the stuff, thinking it must work for guys too,” he said. That was a couple of days earlier, but then on a Sunday he started to get a strange discharge and he diagnosed himself as having gonorrhea. The discharge was an opaque yellowish, brownish color.
He didn’t show me, of course, that would be gross, but he told me about it. What he didn’t realise is that he accidentally left a drop on the toilet seat. I didn’t call him in – I guess I had more reason to than the friend who walked back into the room and yelled “Who was the last person to use the bathroom!” and drummed the poor guy back in there just to put the toilet seat down – I simply wiped it off. (That might actually have been a bit foolish, I don’t know if you can actually get the disease but according to “the internet” if you rub your eye you run the risk of catching conjunctivitis…)
When he realised what was going on, he started calling everyone he had sex with in the last month or so, (he’d been separated from his boyfriend for a while, they’d only just gotten back together, but of course he too was at risk) telling them he was pretty sure what he had and they may want to get checked. I overheard him make several of these calls and he was so tactful, never sounding like he was accusing anyone, just warning them to watch out for themselves. Of course in private we also thought back to try and figure out who did give it to him… At one point he remarked that I seemed to remember his sex-life better than he did – ah… the joys of proxy living!
So, the next day we took a nice trip to the clap clinic. It was a bit of a walk to the free clinic on the edge of the town center, especially in the muggy weather, but quite enjoyable. (My ears started popping, so I told him we’d be going back by public transport because the change of weather was likely to get us wet – it turned out I was wrong). As we were walking through town, he told me I was earning some major fag hag street cred by accompanying him, I could now look any other hag in the eye. Not that I felt I couldn’t already. (I’ve been thinking about writing and drafting this story for some time and this part prompted me to post my eight levels of serious fag-haggery blog.)
As we got to the public health building, all we saw were two security guards, looking like they were having a sly fag. They told us the doors wouldn’t open for another forty-five minutes, but – and it was very nice of them to mention this – the queue would probably start forming half an hour before. There was a sandwich place practically next door, so we split a grilled chicken sandwich and got back to join in line behind three Eastern European-looking and sounding ladies, who, let’s just say I’d be very surprised if they weren’t earning their money in the Red Light District... The other two “customers” ahead of us were two guys studiously ignoring everyone and everything.