by Dee Simon
“Why you playing all this wack shit for her? It won’t do no good.”
“What do you mean? These songs aren’t wack.”
“You trippin’ if you think ‘Humpty Dance’ ain’t wack. But it don’ matter what you play cuz she can’t hear it.”
“She can’t hear it? Should I turn it up?”
“Still won’t do no good. She’s deaf. She can’t hear shit.”
“She’s deaf?” The realization hit me like a punch in the groin. “How do you know she’s deaf?”
“I seen her talking to her man using sign language and shit.” Heaven moved her fingers in the air pretending that she was signing a message to me. “I was telling you to eat a dick in sign language.”
“Nice. Thanks for that.” All of a sudden, I felt truly remorseful for playing all those songs for her. Though it made perfect sense, I had no idea that she was deaf. “Well, I’ve worked with her five or six times, and she still hasn’t tipped me or any other DJ at the club.”
“She hasn’t tipped you?” Heaven asked with more than a hint of incredulity. “She don’ make no money. The bitch is deaf. She can’t hustle cuz the customers don’t know sign language. Damn.”
“I suppose you’re right. Now I feel like a dick.”
“You should.” She shook her head and sauntered back to the dressing room, moving her index finger back and forth in a “tick-tick” motion while mouthing the chorus of the song.
When the shift ended, I didn’t bother waiting at the door to be tipped out by Barbie. I felt that I should apologize for mocking her, but since I didn’t know sign language, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. I attempted to rationalize my behavior by acknowledging the fact that she didn’t actually hear the music that I was playing for her, but that didn’t lighten my conscience. On her way out, she walked by the booth, but I avoided her and pretended to be busy packing up my CD cases. I never saw her again after that shift. I’d like to think that she found a job at a strip club for the disabled where she’d have an equal opportunity to make as much money as the other dancers, but, sadly, a club like that doesn’t exist.
Dick Has a Sore Throat
It was inevitable. Bound to happen sooner or later. I had had sexual intercourse with twenty different strippers in six months. Venereal disease was the unavoidable outcome. I’m not trying to boast here. I’ve never been considered a stud and never will be. I’m not even a handsome man. Women usually tell me I’m “unconventionally handsome,” which is a polite way of saying you’re not very attractive. But, unless you’re physically deformed, it’s very easy to get laid when you work at a strip club. In fact that’s the only time one ever gets laid at a strip club unless you’re a drug dealer or you’re paying for it. Honestly, it was easier to score at a strip club than it was in college, and I’d wager that the girls at the club were less intoxicated. My tried and true line was simply, “So, what are you doing after work? You want to come over and smoke a joint?” It worked every time. Sometimes we wouldn’t even take the time to smoke the joint. I can only wish it was that easy for me now. But it’s not like I didn’t use protection when I had sex. I’m not an idiot. I wore condoms with most of my sex partners, but as the Center for Disease Control pamphlets proclaim: The only way to be 100 percent sure of eliminating your risk of contracting STDs is to abstain from sex. Abstinence. That’s realistic. Sure. I’ll abstain from sex, and while I’m at it, perhaps I’ll become a Mormon and wear magic underwear too. I recognized the fact that I was commingling with loose women, but I thought that I had safeguarded myself to the best of my drunken ability with the frequent use of prophylactics. Sadly, I was mistaken.
It was a day before my twenty-ninth birthday when I realized that something was burning downstairs during a routine urination. As usual, I had drunk a bit too much the night before and was rudely awoken by the urgent pressure of a full bladder. Stumbling to the toilet, my eyes hardly adjusting to the daylight, I stood there at ten in the morning with my penis in my hand. A strong yellowish-orange stream of urine shot into the toilet, and I suddenly came to the startling realization that something was tingling down there. This pee did not feel like a normal pee. There was something “tingly” about this pee. Now I didn’t immediately jump to conclusions and assume that I had contracted some hideous venereal disease, though the idea was floating around in the back of my mind. Rather I felt that I was having one of those hot morning pees. It made sense that my bladder had been full of warm urine all night and now it tingled the thin walls of my urethra upon exit. It’s a completely natural occurrence, especially after a night of heavy drinking. Yet, I still felt that something was awry, and as I returned to bed, I attempted to mollify my worried mind by rationalizing that if indeed I had a venereal disease, I wouldn’t merely experience a tingling sensation, I’d be forced to my knees by the excruciating pain of my scorching junk. And since that didn’t occur, I reasoned that there was nothing seriously amiss. It wasn’t till about three hours later, when I officially awoke and right before my second urination of the day, that I discovered a whitish fluid leaking out of the head of my penis. There was no doubt about it. This was a discharge. There was fucking pus leaking out of the head of my penis. I freaked out and ran to the kitchen, grabbed a half-full bottle of vodka, and emptied its contents into my dickhole. That gave me the scorching sensation that had vexed me before, and the vodka burned so severely that I had to shove my dick under the faucet of the kitchen sink and pour cold water over it for the next five minutes. I was glad I was alone as this would be a difficult scenario to explain to a woman whom you had just had sex with the night before. I then took a shower and sat down in the tub vigorously scrubbing the head of my cock with a bar of soap. By the end of my hysterics, my dick was chafed and crimson red. But now, my suspicions were confirmed. I had definitely caught something. I didn’t know what to do. I had never contracted a venereal disease before and had no idea how to deal with it. There was only one person that I could call for advice: my brother, Jeffrey. As a bartender at several leather bars in San Francisco’s Castro neighborhood and a frequent visitor to highway rest stops throughout the country, he definitely had experience with these matters. I agitatedly dialed his number, praying that he would answer his phone.
“Hey, what’s up, guy?” he said cheerfully.
“Hey, man, do you have a second? It’s important,” I responded with rising urgency in my voice.
“Yeah, sure. Are you okay?”
“Well, not exactly. I’m not dying or anything. Well, maybe. I don’t know yet. But I think I caught something down there.”
“Down there?”
“Yeah, I think I have syphilis or something along those lines.”
“Syphilis?” he asked, laughing.
“Hey, this is a serious matter. It fucking burns when I piss, and I think I had a discharge.”
“Hold on. How do you know you had a discharge?”
“How do I know? There is a milky fluid seeping out of the head of my cock. That’s how I fucking know. Jesus. Do you want me to come over and show you?”
“Okay. Calm down. You’re freaking out for no reason. If you’re that worried, go to the clinic and get tested. You probably have gonorrhea.”
“What? Gonorrhea? The clap? Holy shit. How the fuck did I get the clap? I thought only seventies porn stars got the clap.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you sleep with dirty birds.”
“Oh my god. I can’t believe this is happening.” I felt myself begin to hyperventilate.
“Take it easy. Gonorrhea’s not that big of a deal. I’ve had it four times. It just means your dick has a sore throat. They give you some antibiotics and it clears up in a week,” he said with a nonchalance that I found infuriating.
“I can’t fucking believe this is happening to me. I probably have AIDS.”
“Guy, settle down. You don’t have AIDS. Just go to the clinic tomorrow and get tested. You’ll be fine.”
He had t
o get back to work, so I hung up the phone and paced around my apartment, obsessively checking the head of my cock every two minutes to see if there was another discharge. Finally, I grabbed my laptop and googled the San Francisco City Clinic. Since it was Sunday, the clinic was closed. I had no other choice but to wait till the next morning to get my junk checked out. I didn’t leave my apartment all day. I lay in bed with the blinds tightly shuttered and the lights off, a playlist consisting of alternating Smiths and Joy Division songs playing loudly on my stereo. All I could think of was Eddie Murphy describing herpes as something you keep forever, like luggage. I envisioned how my entire life would be dramatically altered when the doctor told me that I had herpes. How can someone possibly have a normal sex life with herpes? If you have any semblance of a scruple, aren’t you supposed to inform your prospective sex partner of your condition prior to the sex act? I shuddered at the thought of ever having to be in that situation. I pictured myself firmly holding her hands in mine and staring directly into her eyes:
“Baby, there’s something I must confess before we do this…”
I divulge my secret and, consequently, she runs around the room in hysterics, picking her clothes up off the floor and trying to vacate the premises as hastily as possible. Whenever sex requires a disclaimer, the outcome is rarely good. I tried not to think about it. I attempted to distract myself with three hours of Ren & Stimpy and some potent marijuana. It didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse. The animated figures on the television resembled the insidious bacteria ravaging my precious genitals. I had to shut it off. Then I lay in bed, in silence, staring at the ceiling. It was four in the morning, January 22. I was twenty-nine years old. And my first birthday gift was a venereal disease. I began to weep bitter tears of shame.
Finally, I fell asleep and awoke several hours later around 9:30 AM. I threw on a shirt and jeans, ran out of my apartment, and caught the first cab I could find. The clinic was located in the South of Market neighborhood on 7th and Folsom and was only a ten-dollar cab ride away. In the back of the cab, I thought about how the City Clinic is a blessing for people without insurance. I asked the cab driver to drop me off on the corner so that he wouldn’t discern my ultimate destination. But from my impatient twitching and sweat-covered brow, I’m sure he had a good idea. I walked briskly down 7th Street, and when I neared the clinic, I saw that there was a queue of about fifteen people waiting to get inside. Contemplating whether or not there might be a guest list and then chiding myself for thinking something so retarded, I took my position at the end of the line behind a portly, dark-skinned black man dressed in a red mink peacoat, red mink flat cap, and dark black sunglasses at 10:00 AM on a sunny San Francisco morning. When I walked up behind him, he slowly turned around, looked me over, and flashed a wide grin. His gold-capped teeth shone brightly in the sunlight.
“How you doin’, bro?” he asked.
“Good. Thanks,” I replied uneasily, forcing myself to smile.
“Well, you can’t be doin’ too good if you’re standing in this line.” With that he broke into a spasm of laughter, which quickly transformed into a fit of coughs and wheezes.
I nodded my head, hoping that by not answering him vocally he’d stop talking to me. I wished I had brought my headphones. Though I didn’t feel like listening to music, I still could have put them on and not been bothered by anyone. He was still chatting away, and as I took account of him, I couldn’t help but notice that he looked a lot like the comedian Bernie Mac. Well, a younger, obese, and “thugged-out” version of Bernie Mac in a red fur coat. The man must have weighed at least 350 pounds and was well over six and a half feet tall. But his most distinctive features were his tattoo of the words “West Side” in Old English letters across his throat, and his mouthful of gold teeth. Glancing down the line, I noticed that I wasn’t the only anxious person waiting to get his junk checked out. Everyone seemed to be nervously checking the time on their watches or cellphones every five seconds, their left leg shaking uncontrollably, their right hand buried deep into their pockets playing with loose change, their head hung low with consternation. Their sentiment echoed my own, and I too was staring at the sidewalk, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. Suddenly I felt a sharp shot of anxiety jolt my body as I realized that it was quite possible that someone I work with could be standing in this line or in the waiting room inside. I couldn’t think of anything more humiliating than running into a random barback, ex-girlfriend, or, even worse, a dancer at the clinic. The rumors would spread like wildfire, and I would be a laughingstock for months. Maybe even years. I started to panic and was about to split and deal with my genital malady at a later date when my rational side took over. If a dancer were here, then that would mean that she caught something too and there’s an “honor among thieves thing” that exists with people who work in the industry. I’m sure we’d give each other knowing glances from time to time, but this day would never be spoken of again, especially not in a public setting. I surveyed the queue, carefully looking for anyone I might know. Of the fifteen people, there were only two women in line, and I didn’t recognize either one.
Gangsta Bernie Mac broke my rumination by stating, “Damn. My dick and balls be itchin’ like crazy.” He furiously scratched at his crotch, shaking his head. “Man, I took a piss this morning, looked at my dick, and the shit was red. For real. Red. Like a supersized twizzler. You ever seen a nigga with a red dick before?”
I wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical, but I offered up an answer regardless, “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Hell no, you ain’t seen a nigga with a red dick before. Cuz the shit ain’t right. I tole my baby’s momma, I gots to go and get my shit checked out. She starts trippin’, throws a 40 at my head. I should have slapped the bitch, but I just left and came over here. Damn. What you got goin’ on?”
“Umm, nothing really.”
“Nothin’? You wouldn’t be standing in this line if you ain’t got nothin’ goin’ on.” Even though this was practically the same joke that he had told moments before, it still produced the same laugh/cough/wheeze combo.
“No offense but I’d prefer not to discuss my medical concerns with you. You don’t appear to be a doctor. I might be wrong but most doctors don’t wear red fur coats.”
He looked at me angrily for a second and then broke into a wide, gold-toothed grin and replied, “You know what I hate about comin’ here? We’re across the street from a motherfuckin’ elementary school.”
I didn’t notice that until he pointed it out, but sure enough, across the street from the City Clinic was Bessie Carmichael Elementary School. We watched a group of about ten kids playing a game with a large red ball in the playground. When someone kicked the ball over to the fence, a kid ran over to fetch it and paused to stare at the people standing in the long queue across the street. I watched his teacher walk over, grasp his little hand in hers, and guide him back over to the group. I imagined her admonishing him:
“Listen, Benjamin. I have something very important to tell you. You need to keep your grades up, never do drugs, and never have sex. If you do drugs and have sex then you’ll end up over there like those sad, diseased people.” She grasped his neck firmly with her left hand and forced him to stare at the luckless lot standing across the street, and with her right hand she pointed menacingly at us.
I slipped on my sunglasses and glanced at my cellphone in a feeble attempt to avoid the accusing eyes of the passersby. They looked at us as if we had leprosy. This was becoming unbearable. I felt like a prisoner at a Nazi concentration camp being marched into the showers. My mind was racing, and I started to experience psychosomatic feelings of the venereal disease slowly poisoning my other vital organs. I chainsmoked one cigarette after another, but it did little to calm my nerves. I could have shot a gram of dilaudid and listened to an entire Massive Attack record, and I still would have been on edge.
After about an hour of waiting, we finally entered the doors of the clin
ic. A large nurse, sitting at a desk near the front door, told us to take a number, much like you do at a delicatessen, and wait for it to be called. The back wall of the waiting room was covered, floor-to-ceiling, with pamphlets about safe sex and venereal disease. I chose to bypass the reading material and quietly slipped into a chair in the back corner. The waiting room was filled with people and there were only a few open chairs left. The crowd was rather diverse. From white businessmen wearing designer suits to Mexican gangbangers and tranvestite prostitutes, there were people here from all segments of society. It amused me to think that venereal disease is the force that unites us all. The radio was tuned to KMEL, a soul music station, and the Kool & the Gang song “Get Down On It” was playing through tiny speakers in the ceiling. Though it’s a bit played out, I normally didn’t mind hearing that song. But this morning, I found it extremely irritating. I kept thinking that’s the reason I was here in the first place: getting down on it too many times without protection. Now I really wished I had brought my headphones. The wall on the right was curiously adorned with a large mural of a tropical jungle featuring various jungle animals, like a toucan, a jaguar, and a baboon. I didn’t really see how the mural fit, but I liked the fact that it added some color to this dull, antiseptic environment. I envisioned the jaguar jumping out of the painting and savaging the people ahead of me in line. That would speed things up.