In January, my ex-boyfriend told me that he had genital herpes. He had never meant to hide this from me, he said, but he had to get it off his chest sooner rather than later. “Sooner,” apparently, meant six months into a relationship and immediately after his birthday dinner. At the end of it all I was never as mad about the herpes as I was bewildered about this particular decision, to withhold until after his belly was full of oysters and octopus for which I’d proudly footed the bill. Like a girl getting dumped at a restaurant on Valentine’s Day by a guy who thinks it’s rude to do it right before the holiday, I wondered–still wonder–if you already know, why wait? Also: Did you want oysters that bad?
But I hadn’t asked him any of this that night. Instead, I watched while he sat at the edge of my bed, body twitching like he was possessed, the confession bursting from him all Exorcist pea soup-style. What amused me was that he kept saying I’m not asking for your sympathy and then saying Just hit me, a one-person call-and-response. As if a blow from a woman can be anything at all besides pity. When men do That Thing where they commit a life-altering wrong but instead beg you to strike them between sobs, when they start to say things like I’m just such a piece of shit!, what they want is a bruised cheek to clutch. An impetus to cry harder. They are too proud to ask you–the one who should be getting comforted!--to cradle them like a mother would; they are too embarrassed to admit the masochistic pleasure in being pitied, looking up into the eyes of a woman who thinks you pathetic between poor-thing murmurs and hair strokes.
So they ask you to hit them, and you say: So many people have that. It’s common and manageable. And: I’m not going to hit you. Come here. Let me hold you.
Today, I would have just asked for my $200 in oyster money back.
***
I have spent a lot of time doing research. I know more about HSV-2/genital herpes than I have ever wanted to know. Because I want to make it clear that my anger is not somehow directed to everyone with herpes, because I have always prided myself on being relatively well-educated on matters of sexual health and am now even more so, it feels like the right time to say that I don’t think the disease that is essentially a skin rash deserves its stigma. It is very much manageable with the right prescription, the right partner. What I said to my ex that night was mostly true, if not exceedingly kind given the circumstances.
But this is also not its garden-variety cold-sore sister, HSV-1, the one people say “basically everyone” has. Online, in the days after The Incident (should we just call it “the birthday dinner?” Make it some sort of STD shorthand–and then he birthday dinner’ed me!), I read about first outbreaks described as “the most painful thing I’d ever experienced.” I scrolled through Reddit posts from people who lamented having this “lifelong, incurable issue” and let those words run through my mind over and over. In my dreams. At work. I spent my office time stressed about phantom pains, taking bathroom breaks to finger invisible sores and Google, Google, Google. There are lawsuits for this shit, people! A glossy website for a lawyer’s office in New York informed me of a recently-settled case for sexual battery, fraud, negligence, and infliction of emotional distress due to the defendant transmitting HSV-2 to his client. Usher himself has even birthday dinner’ed three women. Stars, I want to write to my ex. They’re just like us :)!
Listen: I made my own Reddit post. I’m embarrassed to admit this. I’m not mad that it’s herpes, I wrote, self-conscious about offending the Reddit herpes community. I’m mad he didn’t tell me. I feel so violated, like my body isn’t my own. I might have something literally lifelong and incurable and it wasn’t my choice to make.
Fortunately, the Reddit herpes community had my back. Lol i wouldn’t wish this upon anyone…People who give it to others deserve to get shot in the head, someone wrote. You are extremely valid in your feelings. What happened to you was not OK. If it makes you feel better, plenty of us live normal, happy lives with this, but you did not deserve for the life you already have to be taken away from you. The more measured response, the one a therapist would probably coax me toward. He doesn’t respect you. He never will. How anyone can know and keep it from someone, i don’t know how it doesn’t eat him up inside. Keep your head up girl.
I thought of these anonymous Redditors while I watched the nurse at the vaguely-named Resource Center struggle to stick my vein. When I told her why I was there, she looked at me sadly and said, Are you sure you’re safe? And as the tube went red with blood, I closed my eyes and thought about what I would’ve done with the eight-figure Usher settlement.
***
I got a blood test because I’ve never had an outbreak or symptoms. Later, I found out that HSV-2 blood tests are discouraged for their inaccuracy. An antibody index level above 3.5 is considered seropositive regardless, but below that, from 0.9-3.5–where I fell–is indeterminate gray area without active sores to swab.
Here is what I am proud to say: that I sought confirmatory testing. That I am negative but honest, incapable of ever being as cowardly as him. No one means to hide anything from anyone; no one maliciously infects others, thinking to themselves, Ha, take that! I don’t imagine my ex hunched over in his bathroom, dusting his sores with drugstore concealer and evilly rubbing his hands together. But I do think about how he told me he’d known for years at this point. He made sure to avoid contact with me when he had active outbreaks–how considerate of him–but otherwise gave it little thought.
I also think about that other question that came to me out of the blue. Who has been here before me, who has known what it’s like to Google Google Google? He hung his head while answering, squeezing his eyes shut like a dog pretending not to see the chewed-up couch. No, I never told her either. Also, when I said we used protection, I meant we did at the beginning. After that it was like… A beat. You know. Because it was exclusive. But no, I never said anything.
Through tears, he told me that he used to worry no one would accept him as is, but finding me was proof that there were good people out there. But now I know it’s not true, he sobbed. You don’t accept me for who I really am because I wasn’t honest from the start.
I thought back to the words of one of Usher’s victims: If I had known, I never would have consented.
Then I thought about sharing this with my newfound friends on Reddit: When he runs around just infecting people willy-nilly. Not a care in the world lol. What do you think a guy like *that* deserves?
That’s easier to answer myself, though. Well, for starters. I wouldn’t call him a man.
**
Little things used to mean a lot. On Saturday morning walks to the coffee shop he’d sweep my body easy toward the inside of the sidewalk like he was Texas two-stepping; slide to the front, switch places, save your girl from falling into the path of a passing car. He gave physical form to my desire for an authoritative voice to answer to, someone who would shake his head to tell me we needed different nails to hang that photo. Someone who would bristle with anger after my story of getting followed at the sketch Kroger and say, I don’t feel safe about you being there. Let’s go to Tom Thumb from now on.
He told me that I had given him purpose. He realized, he said, what it meant to act in service of a woman. That’s what it means to be a man. Everything I do is for your protection. I’d make a herpes pun here, but HSV-2 is actually transmissible even with condom use. So.
I digress: Little things only go so far when compared to the larger factors of a potentially long-term relationship. Why he quit his job in November with nothing else lined up, I don’t know. I can gesture toward those studies about how men tend to believe they’re qualified for jobs they’re actually not qualified for, how they will read job descriptions detailing tasks above their pay grade and go, I could do that. Women, on the other hand, will look at a posting perfect for them, hem and haw before deciding they shouldn’t bother trying. The unfairness of this, the fact that I doubted myself but was dating someone essentially delusional, was what made me want to ask him what he was fucking smoking when he would come to me asking how, exactly, to format a resume.
Once, after I’d asked for dates of employment at his past roles, he stared at me blankly and said, I didn’t think they needed the exact dates. I don’t remember, like, the specific months or anything. We settled for putting down whole years: 2017-2018 on the campaign, 2018-2019 with the nonprofit, me swallowing my comments about how this made it look as if he started a new job on the first of every new year and also how this gave hiring managers little intel in the way of gaps, growth. Smoking: finely-ground strain of hubris always enjoyed by 27-year-old (!) men who have never worked hard at anything and assume that just because they have never worked hard at anything means everyone else in the world must be taking life as easy as they do. Have what he’s having, and corporate America will come calling after six months of willful unemployment.
I get it, you know. Let me paraphrase in cleaner terms a dirty joke that circulates on Twitter every now and then, about how women will say, I hooked up with this guy who was so gross, and he never washed his ass! The woman tells the story attempting to generate disgust and instead becomes the punchline because she chose to be with him. He still hit that. How much distance can really be created between an unwashed ass and your choice to look past it? What does it say about you when you complain about things you accept with no comment?
But I understand her. I know that the woman tells the ass-washing story with private shame, looks around the room or Twitter-sphere for women who will say, I did that, too. Don’t be so ashamed of yourself.
All this to say I know what you’re thinking–if I thought he sucked so bad, why didn’t I dump him, etc.–so don’t laugh when I tell you I just thought it would be a mean thing to do. There wouldn’t have been a nice way of saying, I am breaking up with you because it’s a massive turn-off that you don’t know how to format a resume. I am breaking up with you because you are 27 with no job and living at home with your parents. I am supposed to be non-judgmental. I am not supposed to be so shallow if it’s true love. There is also the fact that I grew up with money and went to an expensive private college with no loans; I worried that asking a boyfriend to have a job would sound elitist somehow. Not everyone went to Fancypants University! I made so many excuses like this that he probably started to believe them, too, telling himself that they just “didn’t do career-prep” at his community college or public university–never mind that my hometown peers who went to state schools all had great jobs, or that my first-generation Emory friends were perfectly capable of figuring out how a resume worked without family money or help. I wondered to myself what it meant to “serve” a woman, yet have nothing tangible to offer her, then quickly reprimanded myself: Men can offer things besides money, Julianna. In our case, this included companionship and first-edition copies of favorite books. Also, sometimes, when I was at work, he would pick up my apartment and prepare dinner.
I was trying to prove to no one in particular that I was not some gold-digger, but instead a mature, 22-year-old (ha!) woman with real values. It’s not gold-digging to require that he participates in society like everyone else, said my friends. Respectfully, babes. He sounds like a loser.
Under the roofs of most Chinese families’ homes, his behavior would be a cautionary tale, the kind of life moms tell their kids they will have if they don’t take enough AP classes. In my household, there is no route besides working hard, going to school, and getting a good job. If you don’t know how shit works, you look it up. If you’re not good enough to get a job, you get better. I don’t have the highest-paying job in the world, but I feel an obligation toward U.S. News prestige and corporate America because I think constantly of my parents’ sacrifices, an entire ocean traversed for me to have an email career carried out in a cubicle with AC. I never saw him move with the same urgency. Who, I wondered, has ever pushed you? If I sound like an asshole for implying that nothing else he did ever mattered when compared against the Whole Job Thing, what I mean to say is that I lack sympathy because– “finding yourself”? “Failure”? That’s all white people shit.
Once, he called me to ask who he was supposed to put down for his references. Also, whether employers actually called these people, because he didn’t remember anyone who could serve as references. People in politics, he explained, relied on word-of-mouth; OK, I remember thinking. Yes. People in politics never verify employment. They don’t ever care to know the truth of someone’s past.
***
In March, his ex-girlfriend reached out to me with stories of physical abuse. Some months later I also found out that he had been recently involved with a 19-year-old. Her Instagram account even listed “19” in her bio, which proved to me that the discovery was not some sick joke, because no one over 21 is still putting their age in their Instagram bio.
He stars in three or four of the 19-year-old’s photo dumps. They are always seated in some park, coloring happy outlines of farm animals; there are flashes of his arm, recognizable by watch. Soft launches coyly posed to say, You’re supposed to notice the male presence in this photo but I have the pleasure of his secret identity. I remembered the Instagram account of the other girl to whom he had not disclosed his herpes (let’s leave behind unemployment and return to the original reason we are gathered here today!), the photos with his face cropped out above a blue striped shirt and that I’d-know-it-anywhere chest hair. I found odd comfort in all of this. Wondering how many had shown him off like this, treated him like a prize, made me feel a little less stupid.
Which I definitely thought I was. I took to berating myself. I was nothing but stupid for hearing his admittance that he had hit a woman and still being sad for myself. I write this today not knowing what the point is of unpacking two separate pains, one of violation and the other of womanhood. You are wayyy too young to be talking about ‘taking responsibility’ for a man, the older women at my book club said. You’ll learn all this when you get older.
I know that young women think they know everything. My self-awareness of how little I know is probably immaturity in itself. When I went to a job interview on Friday and the last woman to speak with me asked me how old I was–You’re so articulate, I can’t believe you’re 22!--I blushed with pride, but how silly any of us are to believe that all men see us in that same way, so taken they are with our maturity. As it turns out, being well-spoken or smart enough by communications-industry standards can’t prevent the feeling of your body being taken from you. A twinge in my thigh that turns out to be a pinched nerve is reason for panicked calls to a gynecologist. I swear it kind of feels like it’s radiating toward my genital region? A period-week ache deep in my belly turns into concerns about cervical cancer, the risks exacerbated by HSV-2 exposure. I think often about how he probably sees a therapist who encourages him to forgive himself, and then I think about wanting him to feel bad forever for what he did to me. I would send a copay bill with a note: It wasn’t anything serious, but what if it was, and what if it was your fault?
***
Last I heard, he was working at a shoe store and applying to law school, which I find more than mildly amusing. In the court of my mind there is much solace to be found in the fact that if he were to defend himself against any of what I have written, he would still have to admit where there are truths. It didn’t end up being anything! It was two dates! Well, yes, with a 19-year-old, but two dates! Or: I beat my ex-girlfriend, yes, I put my hands on her. But I never broke what she said I broke!
It feels good, you know. To have written all this. Unfortunately, nothing I say now about “truly thriving” will sound legitimate; it will just sound like trying to one-up the ex when the actual best revenge is living your life and not thinking about them, etc. But 1. At least I’m self-aware, and 2. Believe me when I tell you that I am living my life. I picked up a freelance writing gig and make an extra $1,000 each month. I have a piece coming out in print soon–I drove to Weatherford to interview an artist. In his studio. Real writer shit. I spend my money on horseback riding lessons and dance classes, daydream about turning 27 or 28 and getting a big-girl brownstone in the State Thomas neighborhood. In July it will be one year since we met, but I don’t have it in me to keep complaining about Dallas heat or discuss moving to Atlanta. Considering our last non-herpes-related argument was about me wanting to leave Texas, I’ll bet that this desire of mine to put roots down here is what will piss him off the most.
I am being paid for my words, and let me be immature when I say that he whose crowning accomplishment at 27 is being a finalist for a college writing scholarship (and not receiving it! Just being a finalist!) can never touch them or take them from me. Let me taunt him like a child because I know I can, because I was never stupid. Because my body is still mine.
Through smiles, my friends have since said things like, Thank god for the herpes, or else you never would’ve dumped him! Nothing but a speed bump, this relationship. Fodder for us all, shit my friends can tease me for when I start dating again in the future. Don’t get attached because he has a job–that’s a low bar. Because I believe the women at my book club, I will chalk it all up to being young and dumb. I’ll wait for the clarity to come as I age. Though my birthday is next week, if you haven’t forgotten. Soon, I’ll be one whole year older! Cheers to good health. For 23, baby, we’re having oysters.