Here I was in Paris, with venereal disease, like Boswell in his biography of Samuel Johnson. Who had given me chlymydia since I wasn’t sleeping with Hayden?
During Christmas break, I met a preppy, good looking guy on the Long Island Railroad, who I knew because he was my high school boyfriend’s friend. We flirted and I gave him my number. We went out to drinks, where he admitted he would like to try hang gliding. He took me back to his place, and quickly proceeded to insert himself inside me.
“Do you have protection?” I asked.
“No,” he said, breathlessly.
“Then GET OUT! GET OUT NOW!” I screamed. “How stupid do you think I am? I don’t want to get pregnant!”
“Shit, now I have blue balls.”
He drove me home in hostile silence.
I was itching like crazy. My mom took me to a gynecologist all her friends raved about, named after a famous sadist.
“Who ever did this to you is a cruel jerk. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, because Hayden wasn’t sleeping with me.
“What a shame, you have such a beeeoootiful body.” Did he say this to all of my Mom’s friends? Today he would probably be in prison.
“You might not be able to have children,” he said. I went numb, pretending not to hear this. Later, another male gynecologist told me the same thing. Then a female gynecologist asked me if a male gynecologist had told me I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant. “Yes, ” I said. “‘Well that’s not true.” She said. When I was forty-three and trying to get pregnant, I was told that my reproductive organs had been traumatized, and I might not be able to get pregnant. Then I read in Oprah magazine that if you were treated immediately, you could still get pregnant.
So there I was in Paris, having to shove yellow suppositories the size of eggs into my vagina every night, wearing a maxi pad, which feels like a diaper.
“No sex for two months, ” The doctor said, which was ironic, since Hayden didn’t want to ever have sex.