Once you get desensitized to constant STD hysteria, there’s a new one. This time a girl wouldn’t fuck me because she was scared of Hepatitis C. Another silent killer that you don’t know you have, except Steven Tyler has it and look at him now. Pamela Anderson has it and look at her now. Well shit dude—I don’t want to look like Steven Tyler, but if I spent two decades smoking freebase rocks the size of basketballs and my dick hadn’t spent more than ten minutes outside of some MTV watching slag since the 70’s, I would count myself LUCKY to look like Steven Tyler, i.e. ambulatory and breathing. But this Hep C is the new one; the new silent killer. Can’t scare ‘em with AIDS anymore so we better tell the kids they’ll look like Steven Tyler. Or worse, they’ll write songs like Steven Tyler.
Or they trot out syphilis, like it’s 1532 and we’ve been fucking cave bears. Or they point out that Chlamydia sneaks up on you and goes untreated and ravages your ovaries and you’ll die alone a childless spinster. These things have been around, you know—these are things that a 1942 sailor would laugh off after a quick shot of penicillin. These are things they made funny posters about in World War 2—she may LOOK clean, private, but Rosie’s got a surprise. And dudes fucked Rosie anyway and then their dick hurt and they got a shot and it was over. And they laughed about it. Which is what you SHOULD do about STD’s.
But anyway, we’ve all grown up with a completely exhaustive course in the dangers of sex starting at age thirteen, with fifteen minutes spent telling you “the dick goes in the hole” and then the rest of the semester being: “and you need to use a dental dam whenever performing oral sex on a non-monogamous partner, and preferably with your wife as well…” We all have such an exhaustive detailed knowledge about the possible dangers of sex that even if you manage to find somebody who will admit that condoms fucking suck, and that sex without one is the best experience we are ever going to have in this short life– so good, and in fact the very reason we are on the god damned planet, that it’s worth doing once in a while– even if you can finally get up this mountain to have the one experience that can briefly erase the pain and drudgery of modern life—you are still not going to escape a monologue, an interrogation– “so, when’s the last time you got tested?” And a contagious fear after a chick guiltily asks you about your sexual history, and then YOU are going to be up all night thinking “shit, I must have AIDS.”
And then you go to the gay thrift store to get the free HIV test, and tell the guy with gauge earrings your sexual history, and he just laughs at you and your chickenshit fears. Like telling your junior high fight story to a guy who’s been in Russian prison.