Saturday, April 02, 2005
Septic?
The sores came back on Wednesday, the same day I'd set to meet T. We've never seen each other in person. I've seen many sides of him--from the front, from each side, but only in two dimensions at a time. Scrawny in the best ways, but with a monumental sort of ass.
It would have been one of my first quick, easy, businesslike sorts of encounters with casual sex since ending a two-year relationship. The first time he was supposed to come over, the sores made their first appearance. They were gone within a few days; but when they first opened, they leaked a crystal-clear fluid like superglue or nectar. They looked like pits, like the ear membranes of reptiles, except spread all over my chin and lower lip. I read them immediately as preemptive punishment, as shame channeling through the lymph nodes, as morality rendered as some sort of microorganism.
T called, an hour late: he had a client, he'd been unable to extricate himself. I told him: I'm covered in weeping sores. We agreed on a raincheck.
Two weeks later, on the day I set to meet him, new sores have erupted, more numerous, across my neck. The doctor said they were most likely folliculitis, just bacteria taking advantage of poor shaving habits. I asked if they were in any way sexual: he said no, for sure. STDs don't usually appear on the neck.
Subconsciously, I've marked my own face. I've scarred myself, with bacteria and lymph. The possibility of open exploration, of sex detached from connection, has me in a full-scale microscopic war of morals. And it looks like the little prudes won.
I had lost T.'s number (obstruction 2), so could only message him through the hookup site where we'd met. He got back to me the day after. I was notified of a response, but haven't logged on to check it. In the meantime, I'm on antibiotics, and am washing my neck with this startling red antiseptic wash.
But the question, the real one: what else needs to be scrubbed? ¶ 12:00 PM
It would have been one of my first quick, easy, businesslike sorts of encounters with casual sex since ending a two-year relationship. The first time he was supposed to come over, the sores made their first appearance. They were gone within a few days; but when they first opened, they leaked a crystal-clear fluid like superglue or nectar. They looked like pits, like the ear membranes of reptiles, except spread all over my chin and lower lip. I read them immediately as preemptive punishment, as shame channeling through the lymph nodes, as morality rendered as some sort of microorganism.
T called, an hour late: he had a client, he'd been unable to extricate himself. I told him: I'm covered in weeping sores. We agreed on a raincheck.
Two weeks later, on the day I set to meet him, new sores have erupted, more numerous, across my neck. The doctor said they were most likely folliculitis, just bacteria taking advantage of poor shaving habits. I asked if they were in any way sexual: he said no, for sure. STDs don't usually appear on the neck.
Subconsciously, I've marked my own face. I've scarred myself, with bacteria and lymph. The possibility of open exploration, of sex detached from connection, has me in a full-scale microscopic war of morals. And it looks like the little prudes won.
I had lost T.'s number (obstruction 2), so could only message him through the hookup site where we'd met. He got back to me the day after. I was notified of a response, but haven't logged on to check it. In the meantime, I'm on antibiotics, and am washing my neck with this startling red antiseptic wash.
But the question, the real one: what else needs to be scrubbed? ¶ 12:00 PM
