Condoms and STDs and Tests, OH MY!

Being single and wanting to be sexually active can be trying.  Not only because you want to be calculated about who you're getting it in with and why, but also because having uncommitted sex with someone who maybe most likely probably isn't just messing around with you or maybe they are but like just did it with someone a few weeks ago can be cause for a lot of concern and leave a lot open to questioning. 

Are you clean? Were they clean? How do you know? Did you use protection? Did you even attempt to? Probably not because let's be honest — CONDOMS ARE TERRIBLE AND AWKWARD AND RUIN EVERYTHING.


But then it's like, without condoms, what are your options? Close your eyes, go for it, and risk getting a STD, no matter how small and curable and have to live every day for the rest of your life knowing you had that at one point and beat yourself up for being a dirty hoe when, in reality, you're anything but — you just were irresponsible and paid for it?

Having said all this, I want to share with you all how I chose to deal with all this the very first time I decided to get intimate with someone after my epic college breakup. I was with someone for 3+ years and we were young, so the commitment was there and the risk of anyone being "dirtied" up with anything was significantly lower. But once we were over and I found myself in this hellish reality we call "real world dating," the danger of inserting foreign weiners into my body and catching something I didn't want was a very real and scary threat. 

I started "talking to" a co-worker. I won't call it dating, because I think we went on just two real dates and the rest of it was just... I don't even know what you would call it. Whatever it was, though, we both fell HARD. Lust, desire, obsession — it was all there. He wrote me a fucking song for Chipotle's sake. We foreplayed to the point of breathlessness, wondering out loud if any other two people on this earth were as lucky as us to experience this sort of pleasure. One day, he spontaneously showed up at my door, carried me to the bedroom, and went down on me for a half hour. The build-up for the grand finale was intense. The chemistry, the want, the explosiveness — it was all there, but I had us wait as long as we could before penetration reared its ugly head (pun intended) and came in (pun intended) to fuck everything up (pun also probably intended).


Since he would be my first after 3 years of monogamy, I wanted to be safe. Condoms weren't an option as they are the worst things in the entire universe ("Let me awkwardly bite your ear while you try to maneuver this piece of potent latex on your now slightly less erect penis"), so as far as my 24-year-old mind was concerned, him getting tested was the only answer to safe sex.

He was older than me, about 31. So logic told me he had for sure gotten it in way more than I ever had and the request to get tested was a valid ask. He agreed and was incredibly cooperative much to my surprise. Everything seemed to be copacetic in that moment. 

But when you take a step back and realize what you just asked of this person — like what they actually have to do to appease your request and how incredibly awkward it's about to make the entire experience of intimacy — shit gets weird real fast.

We were already "waiting" to go there, but then we had to wait longer. Because he had to find the time to get tested. And then, once he got tested, he had to wait for the results. And then, once he got the results, we had to find time to see each other so he could show me said results.

SHOW ME HIS RESULTS??? WHAT IS THIS. "Uh yeah, I'm going to need to see some valid documentation of what's going on your dick before we can raise the gates and let you into the parking garage, so to speak." Believe me when I say the day his results came in, it was one of the more awkward moments of my sexual career.

Because you want to be excited. You want it to play out like a Rom-Com:

"Soooo... got my results back..."


"AIDS, herpes, and a minor serving of the CLAP."

"Stop! Be serious."

"Clean as a whistle."


"Yep." Takes a step closer to you.


Puts hands around your waist. "So..." Kisses you deeply. Your groin stirs.

Then you passionately make your way to the bedroom and proceed to have the most pent-up, intense sex of your life.


But that's now how it went down (pun intended). Not at all. In fact, it couldn't've been more opposite:

"Got my results back!"

"Oh yeah?! Um, ok. Do you wanna come pick me up? Maybe we should go to lunch before or something? Ha..."

"Sure. On my way over."

He arrives. You get in his car.

"They're right there. All clean!"

You try to awkwardly play off picking up his MEDICAL DOCUMENTS and pretend you actually know what you're looking at. You're not even sure you're reading anything right, but you see a couple of "NEGATIVE"s and are satisfied enough.

"Great! Yayyyyy!"

Awkward, forced laughter. 

You go to lunch. YOU GO TO LUNCH. WHO GOES TO A PREMEDITATED LUNCH BEFORE THEY PREMEDITATEDLY BONE FOR THE FIRST TIME? You are actually the most awkward 24-year-old you know.

You go back to his place. His shitty, run-down, eerily-similar-to-a-crackhouse apartment. You make your way to his bedroom, tripping over the piles of laundry scattered throughout his floor and find your way over to his mattress. Not his bed. Because he doesn't really have one. It's a legitimate mattress. And he's 31. Why didn't you take note of this glaring red flag before you had him get tested for dick diseases? 

You do it. Like, IT. The old in-out, in-out. And it's terrible. And awkward. And a bigger letdown than "Anchorman 2." It lasts too long and goes nowhere, but you feel an obligation to lay there afterwards, feigning winded pleasure when you both know... you were both there. You both know what just happened.

That's how it happened, guys. And let's be honest: the sex probably would've been bad either way, whether or not there had been an added pressure of making sure we were disease-free. But it didn't help. Adding more build-up to something that was already too built-up ended in disappointment for all parties involved: me, him, the mattress, and probably his dog in some form or fashion. It made something so pure and so organic just so.... FORCED. Unnatural. Contrived.

Needless to say, we fell apart after that pretty swiftly. I'm talking, like, within a week shit was glaringly different. No more lust. No more sexual tension. Just shitty sex and awkwardness and the desperation to hold on to how it was before all that. It was sad, honestly.

So the lesson here? Asking someone to get tested can be awkward, but also maybe it doesn't have to be? Maybe I was just young and had no tact and maybe (definitely) shit with this guy would've fallen apart either way. I'd love to know who out there has insisted a new partner get his or her shit checked out and how they went to town once the results were in. There's got to be a less awkward and still incredibly sexy way!

Or we can all just keep using condoms.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯