When I was in college, I went to a grand total of three fraternity parties. I was a very popular and fun coed. Obviously.
Frat Party Highlight Reel:
Party #1: Swing dancing with my gay Austrian friend. The frat guys loved it.
Party #2: Hanging out outside the party with the Israeli Hillel ambassador I was madly in love with and therefore constantly embarrassed myself in front of. (I am well aware I just ended that sentence with a preposition. I am a badass like that.) One time, he showed me his motorcycle and told me I could climb onto it to test it out. The first thing out of my mouth as I straddled the bike was, “It’s so much bigger than I thought it would be.” End scene.
Party #3: (Probably/definitely) unwittingly contracting a stranger’s wart. To put it kindly, my friend had a very close encounter of the crotch kind on a dance floor and then immediately strode up to me, clasped her hand around my wrist and reported that I would never believe what she just did. And, because I am a caring person who is always in tune with the needs of those around me, I ignored her obvious distress and shouted in her face, “With which hand?!? WITH WHICH HAND?!?” Oh God, the horror.
You see, some people are raised in the church and some people are raised in Indiana and some people, like me, are raised in Hypochondria. And when you have the upbringing I did, you avoid any and all situations that involve your skin coming in contact with the genitals of total strangers. I was 20 and had held true to this credo my entire life, and had all my hard work and fastidious buzzkilling undone in a single moment by this friend, who now grasped my arm with the same fingers she’d just used to touch a random.
This would have been horrifying enough, if the story merely ended with me crying in a fraternity bathroom, scrubbing my forearm like a madwoman in the filthy sink. However, it doesn’t end there. It ends with me coincidentally sprouting my first (and only) wart two weeks later in exactly the same spot I’d been grabbed at the party, thus confirming my fears that this gross shit happens, even to innocent bystanders such as myself. Guess how many more parties I went to?
Why am I telling this story? I mean, other than that I love to tell disgusting stories?
On Sunday, Fertile Myrtle and I went to get massages. She’d gifted me a massage for Christmas and we decided to go in together. As is often (read: always) the case with me, this did not go off without a hitch. Due to scheduling conflicts, I was paired with a masseur, which is the fancy term for “Dude Who Will Rub Your Upper Thighs.”
I am a cool girl. I tell dirty jokes and have been known to camp on occasion. I was not about to be thrown by this information. This was going to be fine.
And for the most part, it was. Fertile Myrtle and I opted to share a room, with the idea that we would talk the hour away and that I wouldn’t feel as weird about Tim, the masseur. As it turns out, I couldn’t speak at all, because I was fighting peals of hysterical laughter the entire time. I kept thinking about what might lead a man to massage therapy, other than the obvious perks that all people who get massages are naked and that most people who get massages are female. (And yes, I am aware that not every man in the world is attracted to women. For them, there are the naked male clients.) This led me to think about how I, in all my infinite wisdom and maturity, harbor an inherent distrust of male gynecologists because I can’t figure out the draw, aside from the obvious. (I’m sorry I don’t think more highly of men, male readers. I feel kinda bad about it, but I remain convinced.) And this, in turn, led me to wonder why there aren’t more female prostatologists. Where are all the female scrotologists? It was at this point in my conversation with myself, while Tim was digging his elbows into my scapula, that I wept actual tears of mirth. Scrotologists! I find myself that hysterical.
The hour flew by and before I knew it, I had survived my first malessage. I went on to drink some ice-cold water and have a delicious lunch with FM and hang out with the Fiece for the rest of the day. It was great.
Until Wednesday morning. When I discovered a red budding wart on one of my left knuckles. I will be visiting a dermatologist in the near future to have it cryogenically frozen off my body. Again.
The number of times the skin of a strange man has been rubbed against my body? Twice. The number of times I’ve grown a wart? Twice.
How do I feel right now? Super gross. And also vindicated. See, hot dorm friend who propositioned me that one time? This is why I didn’t sleep with you.