That Time I Thought I Had Genital Warts
Back when I thought I was going to have sex again I got myself STI tested. I hadn’t had sex in four and a half years, nor had I experienced symptoms for genital warts or anything else, but I always make every new partner get themselves tested before they can touch me. I always get tested, too.
I hate condoms. I’m on the pill. Let’s just get the tests out of the way, so we can fuck like bunnies and live happily ever after.
(Or not.)
I filled in a form online, then waited for the letterbox-sized package to arrive. Before I knew it, it was finger-prick time. Ouch.
The test
I ordered my test from SH:24, which works in partnership with the NHS to provide completely free, confidential, at-home sexual health testing. (Not a sponsored post. I just think the service is great.)
They’ll send your test by Royal Mail 48-hour delivery – and, on average, it takes less than 7 days, from start to finish, to get results.
The tests were a swab, plus a pinprick-on-the-finger (for me, person with a uterus,) and they give you a couple of spare pricking needles, just in case you mess it up… which I, of course, did.
SH:24 offers testing for the common STIs alongside contraception, emergency contraception, warts and herpes treatments, PrEP HIV prevention, advice, and more.
The results (beaver shots)
Within a few days I got my results. Negative for Chlamydia, Gonorrhoea, HIV, Syphilis, Hep B, and Hep C. Good stuff. Happy with that.
I’d always laughed with Sambuca about never sending “beaver shots,” because I’m not sure I trust anyone enough to send them a photo of my doors open. Cough. One day, though, totally feelin’ myself after the all-negative status and horny as hell, I snapped a couple of shots.
“What is that?” I asked out loud, zooming in on the photo.
A lump? A growth?
Google, Google, Google…
Shit. I’ve got genital warts.
Had I been positive for more than one type of HPV without realising? Did my previous HPV-negative result mean negative for all types, or just the high-risk, cancer-causing ones?!
I double-checked the SH:24 website. Nope, I wasn’t tested for genital warts. It was time for me to ring my local clinic, which I did the very next day – and my appointment was booked for the day after that.
The appointment
I walked in to my appointment, sat down, and immediately started untying my shoelaces, slipping off my trainers, removing my socks, unzipping my jeans…
“Oh, no, no,” Doctor Man stammered. “Leave your clothes on. Questions first!”
I zipped myself back up. “Shit, sorry.”
“I’m Doctor Man, how are you today?”
I want to cringe so hard that I turn myself inside-out. How about you?
We got to business. Yeah, so, I’ve convinced myself that I’ve got genital warts. Fancy taking a peek at my chuff and letting me know?
“Have you ever been paid for sex?” he asked, tapping away on his computer.
“How much?” The words fell out of my mouth, and I immediately wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
Why did I say that? Why can’t I just be normal?
He looked at me, wide-eyed, blinking. I wondered if it would be okay for me to just stand up and walk out without saying another word. Or y’know, die. Right there. On that spot. Instantly.
She spontaneously combusted. RIP, NotSo.
“When was the last time you had sex?” he continued.
“Too long.” What is wrong with me? “I’m sorry, about four and a half years.”
“When did you notice the symptoms?” He stopped typing and turned to face me.
“Ummm, just the other day.”
He frowned. “Let’s get you up on the bed.”
Why is he frowning? Why did he frown? What’s the frown for? Don’t do that.
It was finally time to start stripping. Again. Doctor Man left the room, then came back with a nurse. I love getting my chuff out for an audience. Great.
I hopped on the bed, whacked my legs in the stirrups, and the nurse started holding my hand.
“You’re shaking, poor love!” she said.
In reality, I was having the worst Graves’ tremors and trying to hold in a huge fart… which was harder than you’d think in that position.
Doctor Man had a good ol’ poke around. “Can you point out exactly what you think are your genital warts?”
I made a feeble attempt to sit up, but the whole legs-in-stirrups thing made it difficult. Instead, I had to reach around my own thigh and violently poke at my own vulva until I felt out the lumps. I essentially accidentally fingered myself in the clinic. Good times.
“No,” Doctor Man declared. “Not warts. They’re moles.”
Moles?
Fucking moles?
I waited in the waiting room, getting side-eyed from all the other people waiting, who definitely thought that I was some kind of diseased slut, for an appointment that ended up being half an hour later than planned, then prematurely stripped and accidentally offered Doctor Man sex for money, for it to be two new fucking moles?
There had to be something in that room that could finish me off if the embarrassment didn’t kill me first.
“Keep an eye on your moles,” the nurse chimed in. “If you notice any changes, have a chat with your GP.”
“Thanks!” I chirped, still holding in that fart.
Doctor plus nurse chaperone left the room for me to get dressed, which was bizarre as they’d just seen basically everything I had to offer. Then, I left. Job done. Totally tested, totally checked, and I’m totally disease-free… and with a couple of extra moles. As a moley person, I should’ve known better.
The ending
The moral of this story, I guess, is that things are rarely as bad as you think they are. I thought I had genital warts, and I didn’t.
Oh, and you should definitely go get yourself tested if it’s been a while.
It’s good news about my happy, all-negative chuff though, innit? What a fuckin’ shame that I didn’t get laid after all that.
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
If you fancy reading more funny, embarrassing, or downright awful sex and dating tales, why not check out these:
- Sex Fail: That Time I Tried to Pee on My Boyfriend
- That Time I Was Accidentally Paid for Sex
- Bad First Dates: The Almost-Arrest
