Sooo...D day arrived. As in STD day. I finally heeded my girl's advice and slunk down this morning to the free clinic. I needed to get myself checked out for all the nasty things you can catch during "making babies" practice runs. It had been quite a few moons since I'd had a test...granted I haven't exactly been Don Juan de Funk since I'd been given the clean bill.
I arrived at 7:20am at the Los Angeles Free Clinic (5205 Melrose) and there was already an ill-formed line of souls around the block representing the entire scope of humanity. Literally. Nearly every face appeared nervous or bummed as hell. The majority of the population was made out by the degenerate-type of human that doesn't like water or soap or other humans or anything at all besides crack, meth, or dope. The line shot straight into the parking lot and when I pulled my car in nobody would get out of the way. I had to almost drive onto the sidewalk to go around them and came withing inches of the last few people in the line, but they didn't even shuffle forward one iota. Did they smell law suit? Were they needing brain-related medical care? Were they just ignorant fucks? Only Jesus knows, y'all.
After jumping in line, a large black woman named Islanda stormed out of the front entrance rocking a security hat to the side and a colorful, indescribable necklace. She bellowed menacingly at everybody. "There ain't no Doctor available today so if y'all need to see one, go away. Come back tomorrow. I said...(repeat four times.)" Islanda obviously loathes her job with an unbridled passion that would make Picasso wet with envy. Roughly a third of the line skuttled away after her fourth rant in a limping, wheezing huff, cursing Islanda in their given languages. I high-fived the homeless dude next to me in celebration of our wait being diminished by the sick and disenfranchised being turned away.
The doors creaked open promptly at 7:45. Though...they were supposed to open at 7:30. Once inside, there was nobody around to inform you as to where one might check-in so the crowd scattered like sheep in Times Square. I foolishly went all the way to the end of the building following the majority of the herd before I realized check-in was the first door we passed. The only good thing was the reverse in the "first come, first serve" pecking order as all those in front of me in the herd now showed up begrudgingly behind me. Sick suckers. The second, grumpy plumpkin of the day instructed me to go upstairs to room 201. So I did, y'all. Ride that elevator, bitches. Woot woot.
Room 201 has a bold sign above it that declares it, "STD Testing and Counseling," which would be fine if not for the odd fact that this room is directly across from the pediatrics care division. I had to slink into the Burning Crotch Division in front of a dozen, snotty nosed, coughing kids ogling me. Talk about the walk of shame. It made me feel dirty as dookie diapers smiling at a row of kids and then walking through a door with a poster nailed to it of a guy cradling his Jimmy Johnson in pain. I swear at least one kid giggled aloud as I slipped past.
Once inside, we were informed the check-in clerk wasn't there yet. So I waited. And waited. I looked at all the posters on the wall. They definitely took the time to advertise all the fun crotch bugs and oozing problems one might encounter from a fateful romp with the wrong partner. Twenty informative minutes later check-in dude showed up as calm as an LA day in July, then proceeded to grab his coffee mug and disappear for at least another ten minutes. Wow. I mean wow. Finally...he came back and distributed a form for the roomful of angst ridden fools populating the space.
I checked out all the people waiting. There was a young, smiling Latino couple. I thought this was obviously two responsible people just itching to get in each others shorts without the chance of itching afterwards. It was straight out of a Public Service Announcement on Telemundo. Kick ass. There were some dudes that my gaydar told me like brosephs. Responsible gay dudes. Many of them looked quite worried though. Then there was a young guy, really scruffy and kind of dirty, who looked nervous as hell. Junkie. I kind of felt like hurling last night's gumbo just looking at this dude. My anxiety level, which had been in a reasonable level of check for the most part, suddenly skyrocketed. I looked back at my history in the sack. Did I have any really questionable partners in my past? No. Moderately questionable girls? ....Hmmm. Did I always use protection with these girls? Yeah. Did it help my level of paranoia? No. Fuck no. I was number four on the check-in list. I figured it would be fifteen unbearable minutes or so. Survey says...XXX!
After two hours of watching the miserable wenches that host Good Day LA piss me off by essentially reading US weekly on live TV and laughing at things one can't consider jokes or humorous, my number was finally called. A nice, third plumpkins of Hispanic descent asked me if I humped on dudes or chicks. I proudly proclaimed chicks, further cementing my masculinity. She handed me a jar and ordered me to fill it only one quarter of the way up. She pleaded with me not to go above that line because sometimes the cups don't seal properly and she gets splashed with pee pee if it's any higher. I imagined my hands being splashed with potentially disease ridden stranger-pee. Fuck. I assured her I'd do all I could to make sure I met her request. I made my way to the bathroom and peed in said cup, only slighter higher than the quarter line. I decided it was better to leave the minute excess in there rather than pour it out, because then there would be pee on the lip. The strange thing I noticed was the salt crystals that formed on the side of the cup. I kind of tripped on this for a second and wondered if this was a sign I had some unknown, unnamed VD that would make my nut skin turn grape purple. I plopped it in a paper bag and handed it back over to the plumpkin.
A fourth and final plumpkin awaited me for my blood test. She was indeed quite fat and sassy. I decided I liked her. Until she took out some strange needle device out and started to prep my arm like she was gonna pump me with some China White. I obviously looked grim because she asked me if I was afraid of needles. When I asked her if anybody really likes needles being shoved into the reverse of their elbow, she replied that a lot of smack junkies love getting their blood drawn. The whole needle ritual is something they get off on. I really felt for this plumpkin upon hearing this, imagining having to siphon the blood out of some scabie-looking dirt bag who smiles mischievously the entire time. Fucking yuck. Poor lass. I realized the plethora of plumpkins at the free clinic deserve mad props from me and everybody else and they wholly have a right to be as grumpy and morose as they want to be.
After getting my blood removed I received a card emblazoned with a phone number and a date and time in the future. If I don't call within this half hour window my test results get discarded. Fucking duh. Really? So some dude could be Typhoid Mary and they'd prefer to not tell him because he doesn't call right away? Oooh...Uncle Sam. You have such a sultry, appealing way with bureaucracy. It makes me hot like flashes. Alas, it's free so a brother gotta do what a brother gotta do. I programmed the exact date and time into my phone's calendar to assure myself I'd make the call on schedule. Plumpkin Four bandaged my sore arm up. She laughed and proclaimed me a bitch for having to pinch my belly during the procedure to distract myself. Classic. I agreed with her. I hurried out like the bitch I am.
So...what did I learn? It's free and sort of easy if not entirely horrifying to get tested. In actuality it totally sucks nuts. But yo. Y'all should too. Don't pass no funk onto your partners, people. Do the right thing like Spike Lee talks about and never does.
