When I left the clinic, I was practically skipping with joy. That little vial in the bottom of the brown paper bag was my new savior. I ran down the hall to take a shower and put the chemical on myself in the toilet stall when I was sure no one was around. Nothing could have made me happier than the wart remover in my possession.
I decided that the pain was worth getting me back to normal again, so I exceeded the attendant’s advice and used the chemical three times a day, holding my fists against the stall walls to cope with the burning, not making a sound. With each application I broke a sweat when the chemical absorbed into delicate skin unaffected by any disease. I would come out of the stall in pain, in tears, and drained from enduring what I was doing to rid my body of this problem.
Sex was a distant disgusting memory with either gender. I didn’t go anywhere or see anybody or make phone calls to Robert. No one knew what I was going through physically, and surely no one but another person who has been through a venereal disease can understand what it does mentally. All day, every day, I was tortured by how disgusted I was with myself or how embarrassing it was being stuck in my afflicted body.
Every shower or bathroom visit became my own purgatory. I was reminded visually and tactically that the bumps were still there. It was all I could think about for over a month each time I shifted in my chair at work. It became my small insanity, and eventually I couldn’t handle them being there anymore.
So I pulled and cut off two remaining warts with fingernail clippers.
I had prepared the clippers with rubbing alcohol and burned the clipping edge with my lighter for more sterilization, hoping it would make a cleaner cut. My nerves had me shaking uncontrollably, but I managed to hold in a scream that would have shattered the mirrors above the sinks. My fists pressed so hard against the stall partitions my knuckles drained white. When I couldn’t hover over the toilet anymore, I leaned forward, holding my weight with my head against the door, and let loose with my emotions, and cried so hard I could barely breathe. Still I remained quiet, and, when I somewhat composed myself, I walked with numbed agony to my room and went to bed.
This was truly punishment for my behavior and that I should thank God for the simple discomfort I felt rather than a devastating disease I could have earned. After cutting myself off, no pun intended, from men, I focused on healing.
I rested even when Lynn and Annica were knocking on my door, asking me to go dancing at the Ozone. I became a hermit of sorts, watching Tenesa fix her braids in preparation for a night at the club while I made up some lie to keep me inside. Everyone noticed the change in me, but nobody pried.
It was during one of these party weekends when I finally met the white boy. While everyone went out, Tenesa opted to stay in so she could prepare for an exam. I was already tucked into my bed, enjoying a smoke and reading a magazine when, at the last minute, Tenesa announced that the white boy was coming over to help her study for psychology. However, I didn’t even have time to put a bra on before his knock. We both shouted in unison that it was okay to enter. The door partially opened, and a guy poked his head in. From the angle of my bed to the door I saw thick dark hair and big chocolate brown eyes. I immediately pulled the covers up a little to cover my nipples, which anyone could see through the nightshirt. When the guy walked in, his six-foot-two stature surprised me, as well as his thick and wavy Spanish hair that was kept short, and his Greek god smile. My first thought was, Holy fuck he is hot, which immediately preceded, He is not fucking white.
While I was embarrassed of my pajamas, he couldn’t have cared less. His concern was his immediate reaction to the smoke in the room and how it was burning his eyes. His arms flailed in front of his face to fan it, but it caught him off guard and he coughed anyway. Then he forced a few more coughs for dramatic effect. I made some stupid nervous comment about our infamous purple haze room before I opened the window behind my bed for his comfort. As he sat in a chair in the middle of the room unpacking his books, I stared like how a baby stares when they see something sparkling.
He was sexy and it blew my mind as to the reasons Tenesa referred to him as white. Sure, his skin was white, but he was exotic-looking with thick lips, unlike any typical American Ken doll replica I had ever seen.
Observing his hair, eyes, and widened nose, I asked, “What’s your background? Because this skank has been calling you a white boy for weeks.”
His frank reply was, “I’m Mediterranean.” Then, he laughed as he pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and pulled a notebook and pen from his bag. He balanced the notebook on the arm of the chair and clipped the pen neatly within the coiled binding. He covered his mouth and respectfully excused himself after another cough. Then he proceeded to remove the glasses from his face to clean each lens with the bottom of his shirt. The way he reset them on his face for a second time and pushed them perfectly to the bridge of his nose was slightly pompous.
My mouth was open in disbelief the whole time. “Oh my God, who says that? Are you kidding…Mediterranean?” I looked to Tenesa for confirmation that I wasn’t the only one who thought that it was odd. We both rolled our eyes at each other.
He snickered like this wasn’t the first time he had been berated with questions about his ethnicity. He shot us both a crooked nervous smile before patiently explaining that his mother was Spanish and Italian and his father was Spanish and German, but that it was far easier to say Mediterranean than to explain all that every time someone asked about his heritage.
I placed my pillow against the ledge of the window so I could set against it. He was interesting enough to want to hear more and hot enough to want more in general. “Can’t you just pick two of them like a normal person would?” I mocked with flirtatious undertones.
Tenesa laughed and lifted one of her braids but forgot it was still tight; she sucked in air through her teeth in pain. “Jamacian, American, that’s my two.”
I pressed my index finger to my collarbone. “German–American.”
He pointed his index finger to his right eye, just above the rim of his glasses. His eyes grew wide, and his smile began to take over the bottom half of his face. “Well, I am Medi-fucking-terranean,” he said as he tilted his head in the opposite direction with every syllable.
The three of us laughed, but he laughed so hard he coughed again. When everything calmed down, he finally officially introduced himself with a proper handshake, eye contact, and articulation. I remained in my bed with the covers discretely covering the see-through sheep as I shook his hand. “I’m Douglas, nice to meet you. Since somebody isn’t a very gracious host.” He shot a glare at Tenesa, who was smiling and shrugging her shoulders. I held his hand longer than what was required. I deduced that his job defiantly did not require serious manual labor.
He returned to the seat in the middle of the room with my twin to his left and Tenesa’s bed on his right. They studied for their exam between storytelling and thunderous bursts of laughter. Eventually, it was nearing an uncomfortably late hour and time for him to leave.
I waited until I couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore before I shrieked, “Tenesa, he’s not white, you asshole! Oh my God, he is so fucking hot! Here I have been thinking this guy is a dork with glasses and pimples all over his face. Jesus!” I lit a cigarette as I remained in my seated position against the window.