I Need An STD Like I Need a Hole In the Head: A Recent History of My Two Favorite Orifices

by Angela Lovell

Several weeks ago, I suffered discomfort in my two most favorite places--Mouth and Vagina. At first I believed them to be rebelling like ignored teenagers, Mouth mad because I'd returned to veganism, cutting out meat and dairy products, Vagina obviously distraught over a loveless year finally capped off with flaccid clowns and a shared bedroom with best friend prohibiting even self-gratification. As an unemployed optimist, I hoped Mouth and Vagina would magically resolve their issues without the accumulation of doctor and dentist bills. Like attention-hungry children, my body cavities needed to learn that Mommy hasn't got time for every little problem. And Mommy hasn't got insurance.

But then a suicide-inducing toothache struck and I spent the night clutching a bottle of Tylenol, rolling on my futon mattress, which rested on the floor because I sold the frame for a quick forty bucks. Unable to get up because the shift of blood within my skull caused the whole gumline to ache, I begged my masturbation-obstructing roommate, "Find me a dentist!"

Who doesn't have a dentist? Girls who don't have futon frames. I had a dentist in Florida--where I lived ten years ago. Since then I have been religious about flossing, brushing and getting my fluoride rinse on, convinced dentists are only for the dirty and lazy. Much like the grown, shark-traumatized children in Jaws II and III, I was scared to go back in the water. My dentist had wronged me.

I was thirteen and crushing hard on Rick Astley. As Rick assured me over hygenic airwaves we'd be, "Together forever and never to part...." I sleepily sat in Guess jeans watching a mobile spin in the air conditioning, its googly eyes ungoogled as it gently swayed, my preteen body limp and trusting in that plastic chair. My crooked dentist, giddy on the recent addition to our family's dental plan, took advantage of me.

"Yes sir, looks like all of your fillings need to come out and we'll replace them with stronger ones!"

I didn't care that he was lying. At thirteen I knew he was just bullshitting to get more money from our insurance company. I was already in the chair. He was already taking my fillings out. I was probably passive due to the mix of Florida heat and getting grounded. I spent most of my preteens grounded and entertaining boys who hid their bikes in the woods while my parents were at work. So sitting in a dentist's chair for the afternoon was like a prisoner getting time in the yard and I was pacified. He tinkered away, then finished scamming our insurance company. But something felt funny. One of my fillings didn't feel right. Years later I returned and sat in that same chair, and fuzzy, googly-eyed birds faded from bright to pastels, yet still ungoogled. It was just a check-up, but I told him my concerns of the ill-fitting filling from years before. He sits very close to me, as dentists do, eyeing my sundress over red bikini (I'd just come from the only place in Florida for ungrounded youth--the beach.) My dentist replied staring at my new breasts instead of my teeth, "You've developed into quite a woman."

I did not press him to investigate my filling after that. I did not avoid dentists for fear of drills or perversion. I just didn't see the point. My vagina, however, is a different story.

As my most prized possession and greatest source of recreation, when Vagina says jump, I ask, "How high?" My first gynecologist visit came when I was seventeen, and I faked Mom's signature to get birth control pills which were used as back-up to that tried and true champion, the condom. I love condoms. I love condoms more than I love those Vagina-pokers who request entry without one. Men come and go. Vagina will be with me forever. Since the age of seventeen I have had pap smears every year, sometimes twice a year if I'd been particularly frisky. A gorgeous boy from Italy once found his way to my treasure, but upon learning of his many activities with other, less extraordinary vaginas, I stopped granting him passage on my Good Ship Lollipop and sought an immediate checkup. For years we continued to see each other, and no matter how blue his eyes atop that 6'1" stature, I would never gamble Vagina to his Eurotrashy ways. Like Michael Jackson proving his innocence by resisting pedophile-delight Macauly Culkin, I believed this was the strongest evidence of my loyalty to Vagina and therefore nothing would ever damage our relationship. But Vagina grew jealous of the attention I spent on Mouth's sudden toothache and Vagina threw something of a tantrum.

Some of my friends have herpes. Some of my friends have genital warts. Considering the statistics that say that one in six are afflicted, some of your friends have these things too. I placed several calls to these experts describing my condition. My dear friend who once exclaimed, "I love Planned Parenthood! They burn my genital warts off for free!" assured me that my symptoms did not match hers. Another friend viewed my vagina in the showiness of nature one day as we laid in Brooklyn rooftop sun and assured me of her herpes, "Oh no, when you have herpes you know!"

Exhausted from the sleep I'd been sacrificing to aching tooth and internet surfing for pictures that might resemble what was happening to my crotch, I finally asked my best friend and roommate, who suffers a severe aversion to my naked body, to please, please look at my vagina. With mini flashlight, renamed "The Vag Lamp" after daily examinations by every Vag-bearer to enter our bedroom, I was told by the only expert I could muster, "It looks like diaper rash."

My 26-year-old virgin, Jesus-freak friend is saving herself for marriage, and I'm so distraught and desperate with this bizarre rash on my vag that I begin to think maybe she's right when she says she's saving herself for that one, disease-free virgin (which is as easy to find as a unicorn.) I've wasted Vagina on the unworthy and one of them had a vagina-destroying disease sent by Jesus to punish my heathen ways! Half-deranged, I placed that call to Mom in which I cry and confess what a filthy, vagina-pilfering whore her daughter is. Mom, with infinite wisdom of fifty years in vagina dealings, instructs, "Put baby powder on it."

"I'm doing that!"

"Do it more."

Vagina appreciated my efforts and the bumps went away. Still, my concerns remained. Planned Parenthood couldn't see me for two weeks so I turned my attention back to Mouth.

"This tooth is hollow! You're going to need a root canal and you might even lose it after that!"

That motherfucking dentist who paid more attention to my tits than teeth botched his do-over filling and it rotted from the inside out! Every poverty-stricken gypsy worth her weight in inherited clothes and bedding knows the value of condoms and floss. But sometimes, no matter what precautions taken, your insides will turn on you. My new and improved Brooklyn dentist drills the rot from my skull and puts a temporary seal on it. He did not warn me before sticking a needle in my head but that was okay--what I needed was a warning for the estimated cost of $1900 for necessary root canal. I whimper out of the dentist's office wondering how this oral dilemma will resolve itself. Obviously jealous of the attention Mouth's been receiving, Vagina flares up all over again. I keep my sanity intact by reminding myself that genital warts and herpes cannot be combatted with baby powder.

Yet Mom's remedy seemed to have an effect. At Planned Parenthood, I wait among other nervous, free-loving pagans. For two hours my blood pressure, height, weight, and sexual history are written down as I fight the urge to lift my green polka-dot dress and beg someone, anyone, "Look at my vagina!"

A crazy black Planned Parenthood woman, who wants to visit me in California though I do not live there, tells me I'm next. In the fifteen minutes it takes a girl ahead of me to endure squeezing and prodding behind closed door, I imagine the loss of my current boyfriend, my fingerprints still fresh on him, when I confess Planned Parenthood's gruesome diagnosis later that evening. I imagine him shaking his head, unable to look me in my filthy, STD-ridden face as he just points to the door saying, "Get out," then washing his hands as though a homeless person had grabbed them. I'll run away to Scotland and work in my aunt's art gallery. I'll wear black and mourn the death of what was once pink and pure. But first I will write an email to the last few bastards who may have tarnished my greatest joy and ruined my life.

Subject: Got STDs?

Dear Dirty, Unworthy Fuckers,

GET CHECKED.

I hope your dicks rot off,
Angie

Finally the examination room's door opens and a relieved looking brown girl exits. That bitch! I wanted to be among the relieved statistics! She just lessened my chances! Inside, Dr. Helene asks many questions about my sexual history. I'm so eager to have this woman view my vagina that I have not worn underwear. As she asks about my last period, I voraciously fight the urge to lift my dress and scream, "Look at me!"

Finally, she sends me to a dressing room to disrobe and I'm out in twenty seconds, Dr. Helene laughing at my enthusiasm. Breasts before Vag, no matter how I persist.

"You have very healthy breasts!"

"Thanks, Helene! You should see my vagina!" At long last, I'm exposed to a real vag lamp and a professional opinion.

"I don't see anything."

I have to tell her where to look for my supposed STD. A woman who looks at vaginas all day can't even see my bumps with her real vag lamp. She spots the source of my woes and just before I calculate how quickly I can come up with cash for a ticket to Scotland for my new diseased life, I hear Helene laugh at my vagina which is actually worse than someone laughing in your face. "This is like a diaper rash! Put baby powder on it!"

She shoves something resembling an uncovered umbrella in my redeemed and most favorite orifice, opening the torture device. Though this intrusion usually knocks the wind out of me, I'm giggling like a smacked up school girl. At home I change the status of adorable boyfriend from "under-sexed" and decide I will never give Vagina to anyone else again. We practically break the bed to celebrate. What's a root canal to a sexually-satisfied, disease-free girl? A major financial setback. It's a long trip into Brooklyn where my tooth will be filed and gums burnt. Wearing a vintage dress I inherited from my friend's porn star neighbor in L.A., I'm turning quite a few heads. It's not until I slide into my dentist's chair and feel raw vinyl on exposed flesh that I learn why--the back of my dress is TORN. A gaping hole revealed to the world my naked ass. Post-pain and bleeding, I laugh with the receptionist about the irony of so many festering holes in my life as she watches me staple my dress shut. My lovable dentist tells me I'm one of the best patients he's ever had, then proceeds to list foods I should avoid, citing bagels while I'm impressionably hungry. Naturally, I locate a bagel shop upon exiting and eat chewy bread lathered in tofu cream cheese. The immigrant bagel boys didn't know what to make of my crooked Novocain-pumped smile framing a creepy little fang covered with a temporary fake tooth. Despite the limpness of half my face, I smiled all day. I was happy. I was in love with a man whose touch made my eyes cross (which went nicely with the torn dress and deformed smile.) Naturally, as soon as I reached this chewy center of this perfection, something had to go wrong.

Vagina flares up. At first it was just a yeast infection from the penicillin that was healing my mouth. But then the same three bumps returned to Vagina, convincing me this was indeed an actual STD. Deeming Planned Parenthood a great example of getting what you pay or, I call my dermatologist. He's a sweet little Jewish man who would sooner go blind than look at my vagina, but he's trying to be helpful. Our conversation is interrupted by my dentist calling to make sure my mouth isn't filling up with blood. Completely out of sexual commission as both of my most useful orifices ooze away, my lovable boyfriend and I watch many movies and "get to know" each other on an old-fashioned level. I resist shouting at dueling Mouth and Vag, "Don't make me pull this thing over!"

A few days later I return to my dentist for more gum-burning. I can barely eat or cross my legs but I'm happy to see him because he'll put an end to some of my suffering. He shoves a needle very far into my fang-occupied hole and takes uncomfortable x-rays that induce my wasted gag reflex. Hours later, with the odor of my burnt gums still hanging in the room, my dentist patches me up and says despite the gum burning, drilling, bleeding and needles, I might not even get to keep this tooth! "But we had to try!" This is news to me. I assumed after a $1500 investment this tooth would certainly get to keep its lease. As my dentist flutters about getting a tongue scraper I silently make a deal with God--take this tooth but leave Vagina unscathed. With the hole in my head secured, I return home to do a load of laundry and wish the devil would pop in so I could sell him my rotting, diseased soul.

Separating delicates from ruggeds, I cry a little. Lots of people have STDs and go on to live happy, normal lives. But what if I've given this monster of an STD to the first man whose existence has me pausing outside bridal boutiques? What if he hates me for it and leaves me far behind? Burnt gums and drilling didn't arouse any tears, but I've cried all month at the thought of losing him over this vaginal mystery. I shove some darks into the washing machine and wipe tears from my whorish cheeks as I reach for the detergent and rub it into the crotch of... Wait... What am I doing?!

About a week before our periods, girls ooze. It's not a big deal but if you don't rinse panties right away it can be a difficult thing to remove. I'm not much of a panty-rinser. I wait until it's Laundry Day to rub detergent directly into the crotch of my underwear before throwing them into a cycle where they are obviously NOT PROPERLY RINSED. Flashback bubbles buzz cartoonishly around my crybaby head as memory serves up my dermatologist and Planned Parenthood folks all asking, "Have you switched detergents?" My poor, sponge-like vagina had been absorbing the chemicals I rubbed into the crotch of my underwear and experienced an allergic reaction--not herpes and not HPV! Hallelujah! Laundry Day has never been so enlightening!

I invest in some cotton granny panties and begin my quest for a dental plan. Thank Christ, God wasn't listening as I sat sticking to that dentist chair! I kept my tooth and disease-free girl parts! Vagina and Mouth continue to rejoice as I started wearing underwear and still eat candy. And I truly believe after all this good lovin', it'll be a long time til Mouth and Vag close for repairs again. (It's nice that the kids have finally found something to agree on.)