I had always been a firm believer in the practice of simply cross referencing my current girlfriend’s clinic results with my own penis and sanguinely accepting that my sexual health was in good shape. This was proved to be unmitigated folly the dark, dark morning I found an unsolicited growth underneath my foreskin. The clinic had never managed to invade my to-do list due to a potent mixture of raw fear and pure apathy, but on that day I solemnly surmised that push had definitely become shove. On the bright side, the news I heard on the radio on the morning of destiny mentioned that some progress had been made regarding an AIDS vaccine and with this in mind I sauntered, quite unperturbed, toward my local clinic for the very first time.
“Why are you here; lumps, bumps, discharge?” asks the form when I get to the clinic. I gingerly note down “small lump on gland” and immediately receive the “I knew it” glance from the attending nurse. It dawns on me then that this whole affair is more likely to be painstakingly awkward than just a bit of banter. I’m asked to write down what name I would prefer to have called out for me and instantly a plethora of droll pseudonyms spring to mind: Sir Shagalot, Shagpuss and Donkey Dong to name a few. When Joseph Fritzel enters my thoughts I decide enough is enough and surrender my real name.
I wait and haughtily disassociate myself with the demographic of my lascivious peers, amusing myself by inwardly sneering at the tattoo’d hard-man whose shiftiness betrays that he is either struggling to endure the indignity of the whole waiting affair, or is currently having to rebuff the advances of his gonorrhoea flaring up. The choice of music adds to my mirth as Lou Bega’s Mambo Number 5 is followed by Metro Station’s Shake It. What next - Marvin Gaye, Shaggy? I also, predictably, notice a particularly attractive girl sitting opposite me but for the love of Christ this is not the time - or the place.
A young male nurse calls my name and I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. We engage in the kind of small talk that’s only legitimate context is between a prostitute and a first time client. After the initial jousting, shit gets real and I’ll never forget the unbridled panic of simultaneously trying to answer his questions truthfully and not disgust him by my hitherto reckless behaviour. I failed on both accounts almost instantly I’m ashamed to admit.
The tests themselves were monumentally less painful and degrading than I had feared – apparently the dreaded ear bud down the urethra trick is long gone: a blood and urine sample combined with a physical once over on the old meat and two was sufficient. That didn’t stop the nurse idly chatting to me for a full three minutes after having examined me before telling me I could pull my trousers up. Being a good sport, and not one to cry rape, I casually took this as a compliment. Ultimately I had a small wart (which he benevolently froze off for me) but that was nothing too serious and quite common so I took his word for it and clapped myself on the back for being a brave little boy.
Next I had to casually exit the clinic with my composed and stern “I do not have AIDS” expression and await my results, which would take two weeks. The wait for results is painful, but nothing is as painful as the deliberately inserted dramatic pause the automated results service you phone taunts you with. It’s OK when Chris Tarrant does it, but when you’re waiting to find out if you have AIDS it’s a bit irresponsible I think.
All clear! Thank heavens! Now, let’s party.
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