Herpes shows up like a missionary -- completely unexpected and completely inconvenient. Like said missionary, herpes stops by to warn how dangerously you lead your life. But, really, you know Goddess sent them here to punish you. That's because when either knocks at your door, you've gotta dump all of your immediate plans and figure out how to get rid of the damn nuisance.
The first hateful bump showed up on a Thursday afternoon; it was a slow day. By 3 p.m. I hadn't even had sex! On a good day I'll have sex at least once. On a great day my penis will be pleasured by three or four men; often at the same time. Only on the worst days am I forced to endure a whole 24 hours with no sexual contact. I hate those days, because they make me feel like an unattractive failure.
In addition to being a failure, I'm also fairly stupid, so that's why I thought the angry red knots were pimples that had migrated south for winter. Within a few hours I realized that two of my favorite activities, bicycling and masturbating, were tediously painful. Every stroke made the intruders angrier, and by Thursday night I realized I wasn't dealing with garden variety pimples. I asked my doctor, WebMD, what was wrong. She was clear and professional: I probably had herpes. And based on the accompanying literature she suggested, I knew what she really wanted to say: And I'm not surprised, you slut.
I was convinced the Goddess I didn't believe in had sent herpes as a punishment. As the hateful bumps hardened and blistered over, now more itchy than painful, I knew I should have listened to those missionaries she sent to me. I should have took pleasure in the divine word of Goddess instead of pleasuring her innocent messengers. I should have learned the lessons of the bible instead of learning how to seduce beautiful, clean-cut boys who show up on my doorstep. I probably required a lifetime of prescribed rituals to overcome my sins, and I was not enthralled by the prospect.
For all these shortcomings, I turned to the Goddess I didn't believe in and prayed. I asked her for forgiveness, as well as relief from this curse. Only hours after my prayer, Goddess sent a dermatologist to a dinner party I was at. Covertly in the bathroom, I pulled down my pants for this guardian angel doctor. He poked and prodded at my hateful sores. Doctor Angel gave me dreadful news: You have ingrown pubic hairs, not herpes.
The Goddess I didn't believe in had sent me a message. She wanted me to change my life, and she wanted me to learn from this little crisis. Goddess took away my sexual privileges for several bumpy days, but I managed to survive without my usual empty intercourse. The true test of life is if you can slow down and enjoy what Goddess sends you -- the good, the bad, and the embarrassing.
