The Occasional Pitfalls of Promiscuity pt 1

“I’m not really sleeping with anybody else right now.”
While we’re sitting by the lake under the sun in July, and seamlessly, without any trace of a physical reaction, I gently let that statement fall flat, after which I gracefully transition the conversation into any number of other relevant and unawkward topics. 
Although on the inside my emotional gag reflex is going full force. But I didn’t flinch when he said it. I just kept on going. Took a mental note, stored it away, and decided to process it later, when I got home and had the free time to Facebook chat with a variety of friends over the “meaning” of this statement. The reason I flinched on the inside when he said, “I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” was because, um, ya, duh, I was totally sleeping with a bunch of other people. 
We had been fucking for about 4 months. What had started out as a benign and somewhat pleasant friends with benefits situation had slowly snowballed into what we had there that day. That statement had been preceded by a rather awkward, “I love you, Pilar,” moment on some bench in Downtown Oakland, to which I had tactfully replied, “Awww, thanks, I love you too.” Which in my mind came out as platonically and non-pathetically as possible. 
Sure, with him, the sex was good, but not amazing, and the company was (generally) pleasant, but maybe that eclipsed my ability to realize that he was actually just a scummy loser living off his parents and constantly whining about his champagne problem (former?) heroin addiction. I’m not sure how I managed to miss all the red flags, including the fact that he had fucked one of the dirtiest girls I know, in addition to a medley of old, rotting, disgusting tweaker bitches. Maybe it was just another caustic case of resplendent codependency on my behalf (wait, yes, that’s exactly what it was). What I didn’t realize was that this guy really was a scummy piece of shit, and his incessant yammering about his fractured relationship with his rich, white mother was an obvious parallel for the fact that he exorcised many of his mommy issues within our sexual relationship.
After he told me that he wasn’t sleeping with anybody else, he wound up going to Seattle for a couple of days. I knew it wasn’t a match made in heaven, but seeing as spite and ennui are the main motivators of 95% of my actions, I figured that being motivated by curiosity might result in some appealing consequences. After lots of hemming and hawing, I concluded, hey, you know what, this guy’s really fucked up, but  and I really, really like fucking him, and the other guys I’m sleeping with right now aren’t exactly bringing it, so, what do I have to lose? I’m young, I might as well see what happens.
“How was your trip?”
Through his rambling mumbling I garner that it wasn’t that good. I try to maintain a PMA as he starts talking about his scabies. Going on about he used to fuck gross girls. How crazy his sister is. Just kinda angry ranting about anything. 
“And my dick is just exploding in pain, it’s so awful, I haven’t been fucking anybody.”
Oh. Shit.
Now, I’m not a super confrontational person. I think what happened was I just kinda froze up and tried to find in my mind any way to interpret that statement to not mean, “My dick is covered with sores because I have STDs, most likely herpes.” Biked back home. Sat on my bed. Burst into tears.
Holy. Shit. 
Texting, “What’s up with this your dick being covered in sores? I feel like that might be pertinent to me.”
Doing that thing where, when he texts back 15 minutes later, I run out of the room and into the bathroom and try not to hyperventilate while I convince myself that looking at the responsive text message now is better than looking at it later.
“I think it’s just herpes, don’t worry, you probably don’t have it.”
What. The. Fuck.
“Just herpes??!?!?!?! R u fucking serious” 
“Im never going to fuck you ever again. I don’t want to talk to u.” ~ me
To which he responded something along the lines of, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I really care about you.” I forget what it said. I deleted everything immediately.
I guess that’s what the whole “I’m not sleeping with other people” thing really meant. Silly me. What I thought was a close encounter with emotional commitment and accountability just turned out to be another one of those, “This is what happens when you fuck a junkie” horror stories I’m always starring in. 
Within the next 24 hours I was sitting in the doctor’s office, getting blood work done and buying itch creams. 
The test results came back negative today. Le sigh of relief.