It’s hard out there for a pimp
It’s even harder still for wannabe ‘hos.
A friend was joking the other day that she feels like her cherry has grown back, it’s been so long since she’s gotten any. I laughed entirely too long and hard at that joke, because there are women who are willing to pay $3,000 for hymenoplasty and all they have to do is move to D.C. to be in the presence of America’s least-eligible bachelors.
I’m glad I (mostly) sowed my wild oats in my 20s, as it’s getting scary out there. It’s more and more challenging to find someone else (*knock on wood*) who’s drug- and disease-free. (“D&D free,” as those of us used to put on our old-school personal ads in the City Paper.)
What’s scary is how many people won’t tell you what they have or what they’ve been exposed to. Everybody acts like everything is fine, even if you ask them directly. I’m glad to drag my happy ass to the cooter doctor to get an updated bill of health if someone wants me to, but it’s hard to get the favor returned.
I do admit that I met one who laid it all out on the table and said, hey, you need to know about this. And it reminded me of an old female friend of mine who had to make the same admission to someone she was dating, and how her then-boyfriend flipped out and headed for the hills. I was able to be way more mature about it and be glad that they cared enough about me to let me make an informed decision.
And it’s interesting, the pressure it puts on you. I mean, I don’t necessarily HAVE to like somebody to sleep with them, but to sleep with them with potential risks involved that protection may or may not guard against? I remember wishing we were all young and stupid again. It seemed so much easier back then.
Anyway, I bring all of this up because it’s been in the news lately that a reported 1-in-20 Washingtonians is thought to be HIV-positive, with 1-in-50 believed to have AIDS.
Now, if that doesn’t scare the boojabbers out of you as a single-and-looking person, well, it should.
It’s difficult enough to find a halfway decent relationship these days. But since it seems that everything ends, and usually unceremoniously, there’s that extra-added burden that the relationship (I use that word loosely) goes belly-up AND you walk away with a lifelong souvenir because you were LEGS-up.
I’m in the generation where you find out you “only” have a rash or an unwanted pregnancy and it’s like, whew, at least it wasn’t anything serious. Shit, if I’m not going to die from it or have it forever, it’s a cakewalk by comparison. (Mmm, cake. …)
By the standards of the newest report, if 20 guys answer my personal ad, one of them will be infected with HIV and might not even realize it. Great. Sorta threatens to put a kink in a girl’s plans to stay D&D free.
When I say I want “sex to die for,” now I apparently have to qualify that remark!
I don’t know. Is the report all hyperbole just because it’s new and shocking? Or could the problem be even bigger than what we’re hearing? In any case, anyone who wants to date me can feel free to show up with roses and the results from a recent doctor’s visit — I’ve been fortunate to make it this far without anything itchy or terminal and I’d like to keep it that way.
But back to that personal ad, perhaps I should emblazon my health on it. “Sure, I may not be a size 2 with inflatable double-Ds, but damn it, you can get your freak on and still be able to sit down without your asshole feeling like it’s ablaze. Get me while I’m (not scorching) hot!” 😉