Hey LPSGers, This is going to be a little difficult for me to talk about, but I think I need to do it. It's important because I need to overcome the shame that people usually experience in contracting an STD. I think it would help because, when I was going through it, I didn't have much information on hand, so naturally I freaked out beyond reason. Maybe sharing my story will help someone else? I'm not sure, but here goes. Oh, what a Saturday. My friends invited me to a Labor Day weekend barbecue. We hung out and grubbed hard. I have to say that a raspberry chipotle bratwurst stuffed with melted Jack cheese and topped with grilled onions and peppers hit the spot! After dinner, a couple of people snoozed on the couch and available beds. I helped clean up, and then I headed home because I had quite a bit of homework to do. Just after getting home, a quasi-regular hookup called me up to "hang out." Seriously. Can't we just say, "Wanna fuck?" When we hook up, we tend to dispense with formalities and get right to making out and groping on each other. I'm hard in anticipation and ready to stick it wherever. I'll spare details about what went on despite what you pervy bastards want to know. The important thing is, I didn't have any condoms and, as smart as I usually am about that stuff, sex can happen rather recklessly to anyone. I'm no exception, and I need to cop to the stupidity of what I did. Did I pre-cum or something? What the hell? I don't know how much time elapsed, but I remember getting up to take a piss and having it sting like a mother fucker. I winced a little. You see, I have a pretty large meatus (piss-slit) and I was rough when it came to the business (or as much as I could get in at the time). I figured I rub it a little raw, and pissing was just a reminder for my stupid ass to take it easy next time. A few days later, I remember sitting at home and fucking around on Facebook and Twitter. I picked up some cranberry juice (ooh, with pomegranate!) at the store and started downing it. Later that evening, I felt an unfamiliar trickling down in the shorts. Yeah, I masturbated a little while prior, so I thought maybe I was still leaking some pre-cum or something. But a little was actually quite a bit more than I'm used to, so I went to the bathroom to check. What. the. fuck?! No, it wasn't clear like precum. It was yellowish-green and profusely leaking. I blotted it onto a piece of toilet paper, and it looked like something a little runnier than what I would hack up or blow out of my nose if I had a cold. Blotting reminded me of just how sensitive my slit had become. That hurt too! I called a friend, feeling terribly that it was almost 5:00 a.m. his time, but I had to get it out. I simultaneously freaked out, lost my cool, and shouted profanities that probably woke up a neighbor or two. "That hot bitch!" I thought. What the fuck did she do to me? My friend admitted that he had contracted chlamydia (or gonorrhea, I don't remember which) a couple of times: once in college, once a few years later, and both times having been just as reckless as me. Once I cooled down, I hit him with a barrage of questions. How do you test for it? How much does it cost? Is my dick gonna fall off? He urged me to make an appointment with a health clinic or urgent care as soon as I could, encouraging me not to beat myself up about it and to focus on getting treated. I thanked him for hearing me out, then I hung up. "Our computers are down. Call back in an hour." I had class the next morning. I had wrapped my junk up in a paper towel and slept on the floor in the living room so I wouldn't gross up my bed sheets. I had some discharge on my inner left thigh, but it was relatively contained in the paper towel I wrapped around my goodies. I called the campus health clinic on my way to my morning class. The receptionist was polite, but she felt bad because the computer systems were down and she was unable to book an appointment. She told me to call back in an hour to see if things were up and running by then. They weren't. I called during my class break and again after class; nothing doing. In the meantime, the hair tie that I used to secure some rolled up paper towel around my cock had fallen off, slipped down my shorts. I caught it just before it slipped out the leg opening and hurriedly rushed to a nearby bathroom. To hell with it. The receptionist told me to just walk in to the urgent health center on the first floor. Talk about a half-walk, half-rush of shame. Healthcare at its finest. I spent about five hours at the clinic. A triage nurse saw me relatively quickly. I told her my symptoms -- burning sensation when I piss, prurulent discharge from the tip of my penis, discomfort along the back side of my cock. "Yeah," she nodded, when I told her my suspicion of what it was. She urged me to go get it treated right away, and asked that I wait back in the reception area. Unfortunately, no clue on how long it would be. In fairness, several students were pretty uncomfortable about the unknown wait times. Something about only one doctor on hand, even though health services had been closed for the three-day weekend. Something about we'll get you soon as soon as we can. A bacterial infection... um, I don't wanna talk about it. :\ I stepped out of the clinic for a minute to see if the urgent care down the road would be any faster -- not that I listened for that specific answer. (I learned that lab test results take 3-6 days.) I stepped back to resume my uncomfortable seating. A good friend of mine approached me. Oh, for fuck's sake. "How are you feeling? Are you okay?" she asked as I was too flustered to come up with a believable lie. I said it was a bacterial infection and I felt crappy. She asked, "Where?" The jig was up. She nodded with sympathy, mentioning some skin infection on the back of her thigh, and asked when I would get examined. I didn't know. She took off and told me to get better. At least the nurse was a sweetheart. "FINALLY!" I yelled when they called my name to come into the examination area. Temperature's normal; blood pressure is good -- hey hey diastolic number; pulse is surprisingly steady given my anxiety. The NP came in and asked me a couple of questions about when the symptoms started. Roughly, 3-4 days after the hookup from hell. She came up with a game plan, even without needing me to drop my pants. She said she would prescribe two antibiotics that would treat either gonorrhea or chlamydia just to be on the safe side. She wanted me to get the antibiotics right away, then stop by the lab before leaving the clinic to give a urine sample. Take the pills; call her back in a couple of days. The pharmacy would bill my university account for the pills. Needless to say, I practically bit a hole through my lip trying to give a urine sample. We're talking wildfire burning. After a rather long day, the last thing I wanted to be was an upstanding mentor at the Meet Your Mentor event, but I couldn't let my student down. At least she was bright and chipper. I took my pills after a quick meal, washing them down with a glass of lemonade. This is how you get treated. Although I found it surprising that I didn't have to pull out my leaky dick to get a diagnosis, I found it equally surprising regarding the delivery of the antibiotics. My NP prescribed two strong single-dose antibiotics: one 400 mg tablet of Suprax (to treat gonorrhea) and four 1 g tablets of azithromycin (to treat chlamydia). I was told to take them all right away, and encouraged to take the z-pak with food. That's it; one sitting, all gone. The nurse also encouraged me to keep drinking plenty of fluids, including cranberry juice, to help flush out my system. Probably due to a lack of sleep and anxiety about this leaky dick thing, I came home after the meeting and crashed relatively early. I was just wiped out. I woke up the next day to check my underwear. The discharge was gone. It was still a little uncomfortable to piss, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the day before. I remember at one point wanting to masturbate, but the underside of my dick was tender and even trying to bend it so that the boner would sit on my stomach was uncomfortable. I let my dick go back down. It rose (predictably) later, and I wanked out a quick load. The shot wasn't half bad either, and I guess I was pent up. Should I have abstained? Probably, but the antibiotics were doing their thing. I had another glass of cranberry juice for good measure, and then I went to bed. By the second day, I felt a lot better. The discomfort was getting lesser and lesser. I called up the nurse to do a follow-up and told her I was feeling better. She said that was good to hear, and she gave me the lab results from the sample I gave. I tested positive for both gonorrhea and chlamydia and the words "hot bitch" took it to a whole new level! The nurse said that that was common for college students to get a simultaneous infection; those two STDs just roll together deep like that. She asked me if I contacted recent partners. I did, but it was just the one hot bitch. She also recommended getting tested for HIV. I said I would do so in a few months and keep myself in check for the rest of the time. She also gave me the okay to drink alcohol again, and to continue drinking fluids to keep myself flushed. I thanked her and hung up, knowing that I need to make another call. Tired of playing phone tag, I just resorted to a voicemail. The first text I sent mentioned symptoms, take it easy, need to figure it out. The second recommended getting tested right away. I felt like I was getting avoided. After I got the test results, I just let the voicemail have it. "Look, I tested positive for G and C. If you haven't been tested already, go do it right away. I got on antibiotics and I'm fine now, so I just wanted to let you know. Call me back." About twenty minutes later, the callback happened. The conversation turned defensive pretty fast, and I think there was just no way around it. I was just being honest about the partners I've had. Considering the swiftness of these symptoms and the lapse of time between this partner and the previous one, there wasn't much mystery to me. I just said that I'm not judging and some people are asymptomatic, and I'm just doing my duty trying to keep you informed. That gave way to an apology, a wellwishing to get better, and perhaps some time down the road hanging out again. I said thanks, much appreciated, but hooking up was probably unlikely to happen again; I'm too skeezed out about sex right now anyway, let alone with you. How are you doing now, Dee? I'm a lot better, thanks. I'm less freaked out. I am recovering. I'm still kicking myself for being stupid about fucking, but I am thankful that (thus far) this is as bad as it has been. Wake up calls are perfectly okay with me. I also feel a lot better for getting this out. I don't think I'm going on a speaking tour all of a sudden about catching the clap and the backhand, but there are roughly 800,000 college students who feel my pain and nastiness each year. Unfortunately, about half of these cases go unreported. Maybe they're asymptomatic; maybe they're ashamed to go get checked out. The problem is, if this is the case, then it really puts other people at risk even if you do everything right. Any questions?