The thing about going to an STI clinic – even completely innocently, with only research for a story in mind (insert plausible cover – tick :p) – is that it actually makes you feel like a walking streak of gonnhorrea. Getting inside one in broad daylight is like trying to get into a swimsuit in a communal changing room – someone’s going to see something, and at least one person’s going to see your va-jay-jay.
It’s either a duck-and-dive or a pride manouvere. You either march up to the door like a completely unashamed, battle-hardened sex soldier (much like how I like to imagine Mary Harney approaches Ann Summers when she’s buying her whips and chains) or you skulk, hands stuffed into pockets, eyes darting around like the aircraft pinpoint markers on the controller’s screen during a highjacking. You wait until the street clears and you rip the door off its hinges. You barrell inside like George Bush, recently informed of a new war.
It’s quiet. People sit calmly on waiting room chairs. There are no teenagers ripping out each other’s fringes over the last condom in the condom bowl. You remember that you live in Ireland, and teenagers can probably afford several dozen condoms along with some La Senza knickers and an Amy Winehouse cd on their pocket money alone. You entertain some diverting thoughts about Amy Winehouse’s eyebrows and then you remember where you are and move quietly into a seat. You sit with your dictaphone on your lap, calmly assured that people know you’re not here with pants-on-fire issues – and then you realise they might think you’re some weirdo who just wants to record it. You remember that people all come here for the same reason anyway, and the person with the infected pot pretty much can’t say anything about your cruddy kettle.
For some reason, you start to think about what the place would look like if Gay Byrne had never been invented and the country had continued on its Christian path. The Contraception poster would basically be a picture of two people going at it, a blown up section of their left hands to show they’re not wearing any rings and a big X through them. “No Ring – No Ring” , it might say (because that Sr Imelda in Nuntastic Printers is a durty fecker). The condom bowl would be replaced with a crucifix bowl and there would be all sorts of shagnannigans with people miscontruing it’s purpose – “Are we to use it as a toy Mary, is it? “Jesus Tom, I don’t know”.
Eventually, mercifully, you are released from the hellish prison of your own overactive brain and brought into one of the consultation rooms. You immediately note one thing – the walls are paper thin and if you actually were being examined, the neighbours would know all about it. You strike through the question in your notebook that says “Are STI clinics well-funded?” – they are not.
On leaving, the interviewee presses dozens of leaflets on HPV (not a truck) and herpes and hot flushes into your hands. You are overwhelmed with the sense of not wanting to leave such a liberal place, but at the same time wondering if all the material will fit in your bag or if you’ll actually have to walk down the street holding “Pregnancy – It’s not the end of the world”. Your brain enters ‘Bizarre Offshoot’ mode and you start to try to work out which leaflet to carry openly if you have to carry one at all – would it be worse if people thought you were pregnant or going through the menopause at 21? You pick HPV, because at least it’s a chic STI.
On the road home, you pray ferverantly that you don’t get hit by a car and denounce jaywalking. The news headlines flash before your eyes: “Girl crawling with sexually transmitted diseases walks out in front of a truck – sure you wouldn’t blame her if it was suicide. Riddled.” Well, that’d be the opinion column of The Sligo Champion anyway. The Indo would undoubtly sensationalise and go with “City Crawling With Disease-infested Whores”. The Herald would say something similar, but spell it wrong. The Irish Times would be torn between straight reporting and liberally standing up for one’s right to have a lot of sex. It would be a very bad day to be hit by a car.
At journey’s end, you’re awfully sad that you didn’t march proudly into the clinic – because actually, the truth about STI clinics is that they’re quite deadly. No matter what you manage to infect yourself with they’ll help you out – which is really pretty nice of them. Besides, you have to have sex to have a sexually transmitted disease – so people are either thinking of you in one of two ways as you swing through the door. It’s either “that girl’s got cooties” or “that girl’s having some sex” – so at least half the time, it’s all good – and either way, you got some.
Ah Sinead, what a wonderful post! Can’t say now it’s an experience I’m too familiar with, but I love the imagery. I giggled the whole way through
Thank you, it’s tremendously scary to openly associate the tag ‘STI’ with your name on the internet!
Dear Sinead Keogh, I don’t know you, and have not been coerced to say this in any way – you’re like a young James Joyce, only female, and not into the weird kinko letters
how odd that I feel I know you…:P
“Girl crawling with sexually transmitted diseases walks out in front of a truck – sure you wouldn’t blame her if it was suicide. Riddled.”
Classic. Going in my quotes thing once I open Bebo again. So lazy at the moment, it could be a week before that goes up there… but it’s going.
Thanks Úns, I do try I do!
Excellent post, good stuff.
Cheers Emmet! I think I remember reading your blog before, let me know if you want me to add it to the blogroll!
That would be delightful, please do. If I had any idea how to do that with blasted Blogger I would reciprocate. I’ll give you a shout out in one of my upcoming posts in the interim.