REM

XTD

Stopping on the fractured slab of concrete that connects the entrance of the building to the main sidewalk, I contemplate turning around. The odd car drives down the street past others that were parked at meters in the designated area for the Hospital, Drug Store, and last but not least, the Sexual Health Centre – my destination at the moment.

Nobody is present as I swivel my head around, thinking I could give my crotch a quick scratch before someone saw. I resist the temptation, knowing that it would potentially cause more inflammation and bleeding before I went inside the building to get looked at.

After a year of struggling with what my doctor diagnosed as "jock itch", I had given up hope that any cream he prescribed would aid in ridding the nuisance. Jeans that were solid blue now sported long, faded lines on my crotch from itching so much. Any under garment I wore had a hole worn through it big enough for my pinky finger at least.

The last time my ex and I had contact was a distant memory, but because she had been so promiscuous before dating me, the idea of having caught something from her wasn't easily denied. My doctor may have been certain it was mere jock itch – not contagious at all – but I had my doubts. She lied about enough things that my trust had completely faded. For all I knew, she was the one who gave me the rash.

Clean shaven pussy, I wonder why.

If I had contracted this annoyance from her, I guess I had to be thankful it wasn't worse. There were no visible signs of an STD on my dick, nor my balls, so they seemed to be safe for the time being.

Wind hits my face as I scrunch it at the thought of turning around for the long walk home. I didn't want anyone to know I was here, so I left my car at home. An hour walk wasn't horrible, but it would be a complete waste if I didn't ask for help from a nurse inside.

I sigh, then realize I have no other choice. Suffering in silence for as long as I have, this step is just a precaution, it didn't mean I had something to worry about. Convincing myself of that however, was not that easy. I only had sex with one girl my entire life, yet here I was, thinking that I'd never get the chance to be with a second. My dream of having passionate sex with my wife burst like the head of a pus-filled zit.

Lifting one foot after the other off the concrete, I moved in a forward motion down the path to "The Clinic", as everyone called it. There was a negative connotation with this place, but the end results were supposed to be good – dare I say positive? The last thing someone wanted to do was test positive for an STD, or STI.

The door swung closed behind me as I walked through the empty waiting area with chairs that looked more comfortable than they probably were. Stopping at the counter where a large bowl of free condoms sat, ready to help the prevention of unwanted teen pregnancy in the city, I wait.

An older woman with glasses then spins around in an office chair after sorting through some papers and greets me: "How can we help?"

"I slept with a whore." It felt so natural as the words fumbled out of my mouth at a near whisper. The woman's eyebrows shot straight up in surprise at my bluntness, but seemed to have heard worse.

"Well, you've come to the right place then." She says casually. "Have a seat and we'll call you in shortly."

Turning around I find a seat close to the counter so I feel hidden in the large waiting room. As I begin to feel the urge to run out of the building, I know that hiding from this won't help. I need confirmation, even if it is still mere jock itch.