Poison Shy (9 page)

“What's your test on?” I asked, after Darcy's cab had sped away.

“You're not very bright, are you?” She giggled. “Your place or mine?”

Three days later I felt the burn.

I knew something was wrong when I woke in the middle of the night to pee, like an old man with an inflamed prostate.

Too tired to stand and aim, I sat on the toilet and waited. There was a dull ache in my kidneys. Now that I was here, out of bed and on the toilet, I couldn't seem to go. I closed my eyes and coaxed the urine through. An acid sting flared at the tip of my penis as I spilled into the toilet.

I went back to bed and dreamed I was sliding along a conveyor belt, naked and with my penis fully erect, waiting my turn for a sandpaper scrubbing.

When I woke for work I had to pee again. Urgently. But like before, it didn't come whizzing out like it seemed to want to. I planted my feet firmly on either side of my floor mat and pushed with all my might. I needed
something
to flow through my urethra to alleviate the pinched soreness, the grainy ache.

When I started to think I might shit myself standing up, a slow dribble of dark orange bladder juice sprinkled into the toilet. It felt like someone had shoved a splintered popsicle stick inside me.

“What the fuck?” I stood there, perplexed. Everything looked normal. My penis wasn't scabby or blackening or about to fall off; no yellow slime oozing from the glans. But that needing-to-go sensation had actually become more intense.

I put on a pair of tighty-whiteys. There was something soothing about having my package held snugly inside the stretchable fabric pouch. I left a quick message on KEA's answering machine saying I wouldn't be in due to a personal emergency, then called for a cab. Told the dispatcher to hurry it up because my dick was on fire. He said he understood completely. The taxi arrived within minutes.

The only walk-in clinic I knew of was on the west side of town, near my mother's place, in a cracked building above a pharmacy that was only open at night. I ran up the stairs and into the small waiting room. The doctor and receptionist stood chatting by the check-in desk. The woman quickly removed her hand from the doctor's crotch area and blushed. The doctor cleared his throat.

“Can I get an appointment, please?” I said.

They looked at me like I was a stray dog who'd come bounding in, barking for attention. Some dumb animal that can neither recognize nor appreciate the subtleties of illicit human courtship.

“What seems to be the problem?” the doctor asked after I'd signed in and we were alone in his windowless office.

“I think I have a bladder infection. It stings when I pee and I seem to have to go badly all the time, even after I've just gone.”

“Let's have a look.” He snapped on a pair of plastic gloves.

I stood up and unzipped. His hands were cold and alien on my prick.

“Is the pain concentrated at the tip?” he asked.

“Sort of. It's pretty irritated everywhere, but the tip hurts most when I pee.”

He told me to lay down on my back on the bed coated with waxed paper and proceeded to shove a Q-tip into my piss-hole.

“It'll take about a week for the test results to come in,” he said as he snapped the swab into a little plastic tube, “but my guess is you have chlamydia. Have you had unprotected sex recently?”

A concrete ball formed in my stomach. My vision blurred and I thought I might black out. He might as well have told me I had a week to live.

“Well?”

I had to really concentrate. I stuck my knuckles deep into my eye sockets and rubbed. “Umm, yes, I have, actually.”

He tore a page from his prescription pad and started scribbling. “That's probably it. I recommend you see your family doctor as soon as possible to get tested for other STIs. In the meantime I'll write you a script for some antibiotics. Oh, and make sure you contact anyone you've had sexual contact with recently. Within the last month or two.”

I needed to be comforted so I went to my mother's. I wanted to cry on her shoulder and have her tell me I wasn't a bad person. I wanted her to say that I was a nice young man who'd had a bit of bad luck, and that everybody — even the Pope — makes mistakes.

I found her bundled in her blanket like a tumorous pumpkin, whispering to herself about the spiritual filthiness of humanity.

“I've missed you, Brandon,” she said. “You haven't been to see me in a while.”

Visiting her turned out to be the right thing, but not because she comforted me. I didn't even tell her about the chlamydia. Her wild hair, bloodshot eyes, and stinking woollen cloak made my illness seem trivial. It was curable. I told her I'd taken the day off because I missed her too, and wanted to buy her lunch. I ordered some Chinese and as we ate the discomfort in my crotch subsided. I hadn't even taken a pill. I told her about Melanie and the mouse problem at the Catholic school.

“How terrible,” she said.

“I know. Those poor kids —”

“No, I mean the girl. She's not right for you, Brandon.”

“What?” I said, laughing. “Mom, you don't know anything about her.”

“I know she's too young for you. And probably a slut. They're all sluts these days.”

The pain in my crotch made a fierce return. I scratched my stubbly cheeks. “She's not a slut.”

“I think you should stay away from her. Women bring nothing but pain to a man. If your father were alive he'd tell you the same thing. You should think about joining the seminary. It's never too late, you know. You'd make a lovely deacon.”

I excused myself and unleashed four excruciating drips into my mother's toilet. After we finished lunch I went to the nearest pharmacy.

Melanie wasn't answering her phone. I must have called her twenty times. She's probably fucking a gigolo, I thought. Picking up something else to pass along. I thought about our first night together and got furious. She'd basically raped me. Infected me. The timeline was off for the hooker to be responsible, and she'd only given me a blowjob anyway.

It could only have been Melanie. She didn't have voicemail so I couldn't leave a message. I wrote her an email instead.

I popped one of the antibiotics, plus a Tylenol with codeine. Washed them down with a mug of yesterday's coffee. My phone rang while I was taking yet another painful whiz. I ran out of my bathroom with my pants at my ankles. It was Chad.

“Dude, where you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you for days.”

“Hey, man. What's up?”

“Well, nothing really. Ha! I just hadn't heard from you since you went on that date and I thought, I bet Brandon is chin-deep in pussy right now. I bet he has his cock pushed to the hilt inside that redhead's slip-and-slide. You're probably fucking her as we speak, aren't you? Don't lie.”

I held the phone away from my ear.

“You there, Brandon?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Listen, Chad — I know I've been MIA lately, but I've got a lot of shit going on. To be honest with you, I think that chick gave me an STD. I'm kind of freaking out here. She's not answering her phone.”

“Are you serious?” There was a pause. “That bitch. That fucking
bitch
. You want me to hunt her down? I told you Farah's old man's a cop, right?”

“Take it easy, okay? I don't need the cops, for God's sake. I'm not one-hundred-percent sure about anything yet. That's why I have to get in touch with her. I have to let you go, all right? I'll give you a call when I know what the hell is going on.”

I turned on the TV. Distracted myself for a while with a show in which two idiot friends competed to see who could get the most phone numbers from women at the mall, and the loser had to eat a spoonful of his friend's shit. The winner secretly took a laxative to make matters worse for his humiliated companion.

At the end of the show someone buzzed my apartment.

“Who's there?” I blurted into the speaker.

“Jessica Rabbit,” Melanie said. “I came to pick up my booby trap.”

I buzzed her in and tried on angry faces in the mirror. None of them were intimidating. I looked more constipated than pissed.

She thumped up the stairs and strolled casually through my door wearing sex-red lipstick and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Four large paper bags hung from her wrists, all of them filled with new clothes and feminine products. She blew me a kiss, then squeaked out a fart as she bent to place her bags on the floor. “Oops. That was Taco Bell.”

“We have to talk.”

“That sounds like the intro to a breakup.” She walked into my kitchen, swinging her hips, and opened the fridge. Took out a jar of sliced pickles and dropped one into her mouth from above, dripping brine onto her shirt. “Don't you have to be dating to break up?”

“No joking around. This is serious.” I put my hands in my pockets. “I think you gave me the clap.”

“Gonorrhea?”

“What?
Gonorrhea
? No, the clap. Chlamydia.”

She smiled condescendingly. “The clap is gonorrhea, sweetheart. Get your STI facts straight before you go accusing people of infecting you.”

“Whatever. I woke up this morning with a sore-as-hell dick that burns every time I take a piss, so I went to the doctor and he said he thinks I have chlamydia. You're the only person I've slept with in years, so . . .”

“Did you get your test results?”

“No, but —”

“You're such an asshole.”

“
I'm
an asshole? Me?”

She moved toward me. “Let me see your cock.”

“
Excuse me
? You're not going anywhere near it, thanks.”

“I didn't give you chlamydia, Brandon.”

“When's the last time you were tested?”

“I don't know. Last year. I usually always use a condom.”

“
Usually
always? What the hell does that mean?”

“Calm down and let me think.”

“I'll tell you what it means. It means you
don't
always use a condom, Melanie.” I sat down and sighed. “Christ, I'm such an idiot.”

“Stop talking and let me think.” She sat down beside me. Her cheeks were flushed, her body warm. She smelled like cloves and candle wax — the scent reminded me of when I first set foot in her bedroom.

I looked at her as she sat thinking: lips pursed, brow furrowed, freckles everywhere. Hair so orange it glowed, even in the dim lighting. Suddenly I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg her painted toenails for forgiveness.

“Let me see,” she said, chewing on her pinkie. “Dylan always used a condom. Tommy had a premature ejaculation issue. I don't think he was ever technically inside me. Viktor was more into domination than actual sex, and even when he did fuck me he always wore one. There's Isabel — but a girl can't get chlamydia from another girl, can she? I honestly can't think who it could be.” She swallowed. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Darcy.”

“You've slept with Darcy?”

“Duh.”

“I knew it!”

“Uh, yeah.”

“How many times have you —”

“Fuck, I don't know! You think I keep track? God, you're such a
loser
!”

“You think you might have caught it from him?”

“Well, I still don't think I have it, but it's a possibility. I guess I'll get tested.”

“You haven't noticed any symptoms?”

“Nope.”

“No itching or burning?”

“I said no.”

I threw open the fridge and got a beer. Melanie brought her shopping bags to the couch and began sorting through her stuff, completely unperturbed. She was humming a pop song.

I drank half the bottle of beer and stared at her from the kitchen doorway. “I can't believe you slept with Darcy.”

“Get over it.”

“He probably has HIV from all those tattoos.”

She bit the price tag off a pink thong. “I guess we're both gonna die then.”

“I'm not kidding, Melanie.”

“Neither am I.”

“I thought you two were just friends.”

“We were. We
are
. We're also two young people of the opposite sex who live under the same roof. We drink, we get bored and horny. Things happen.”

“When did ‘things' first happen?”

“Jesus, Brandon, who cares?”

“I care.”

“You know, I never would have thought you'd be the jealous type.”

“I'm not jealous. I just can't see why you'd want to fuck someone so disgusting.”

“
You're
disgusting, you know that?”

“Me?”

“Your jealousy disgusts me. There's nothing more repulsive.”

There was a keen silence. A car passed outside. My lampshade rattled. Melanie continued to sort through clothes. I downed another beer and told her I was going for a walk. Asked her if she wanted anything. She ignored me.

I put on my jacket and walked the streets. When I got hungry I went to a pizza place and ordered a large pepperoni with extra cheese. Melanie was getting out of the shower when I got back. We ate together in front of the TV — me still in my jacket and shoes, Melanie in flannel pyjamas with a towel wrapped around her head like a turban — and watched
Late Night with Conan O'Brien
. His second guest was a sex expert. They joked about birth control and STDs. I turned off the TV and told Melanie she could sleep in my bed as long as she didn't touch me. She said she wouldn't even dream of it.