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I knew if I went out I might find someone I liked, I might want to hook up with them.And I felt so bad about myself, so bad about my STIs that there was no way I could speak up about them in the heat of the moment.
I made excuses when my friends asked me to go out, trying to avoid meeting new potential partners.
You know how last year Jennifer Love Hewitt went on a talk show and said after a bad breakup, she “vagazzled” herself? See, I invented “vagazzling” years before Jennifer.
At the time I got warts, I had been going out all of the time—getting my picture snapped by party photographers, dancing in clubs to electro DJs. I had no one to impress with new makeup, nowhere to wear my jewels.
And when it did, I began hooking up with a skinny brown-eyed boy. And afterward, laying side by side, he gushed, “That was so cool.
Just as things were getting hot — rolling around in bed, my hand spreading over his jeans, tugging his belt from the loops — he stopped me. I mean you were just, like, so great about it.” I paused, wondering if I should tell him I’d had them too.
The truth is, STIs are not rare and shouldn’t be shocking, regardless of the whole “but it can’t happen to me” thing.