“Do you mind going down to the sex clinic and getting the morning after pill for me?” asked my flatmate Lydia yesterday morning. She was naked except for a pair of pale pink underwear and her face was covered in bright red lipstick.
“Why don’t you just go and get it?” I asked, annoyed. Britain’s Got Talent was on TV and I was furious that she would even consider interrupting me with this trivial matter at such a crucial moment in my life. “I’m in the middle of something really important.”
“I can’t go,” she whined. “I’ve already taken the pill seven times this year and now they won’t give any more. They say I’m abusing the privilege. I need you to do it.”
“Seven times?” I repeated, shocked. “Why don’t you just go on birth control? Or use a fucking condom. You probably have AIDS. Besides, my favorite show is on. Can’t your uterus wait half an hour?”
“I do use condoms!” she shouted, refusing to leave me in peace. “They just break. I swear, I think I have something sharp growing on the inside of my vagina. My cunt literally eats condoms.” This is the same girl, by the way, who thought she was pregnant after a guy came on her tits.
“Maybe your vagina is just really dry,” I said, trying my hardest not to sound disgusted, but failing completely. “Why don’t you try buying some lube?”
“Yeah…” she said, staring off into space ponderously. “That’s what the lady at the clinic said. They prescribed me this.” And at that moment, seemingly out of thin air, Lydia produced a small white sachet of lubricant out of her underwear. Stuck on the front of the packet was a label that looked identical to the ones you see on bottles of prescription pills. “But the weird thing is,” she continued, “I swear I really do have a seriously wet vagina. I mean, you’ve seen my underwear when I’ve taken them off at the end of the day, right? They’re soaking wet! Sometimes I even have to change them mid-day because I feel like I’ve pissed myself. So I really don’t think moisture is the problem.”
The conversation was beginning to terrify me. “Look, I’ll get the pill for you,” I said in a desperate attempt to make her stop talking about her lady juices. “But you have to come to the clinic with me.”
* * *
Sat behind the front desk at the sex clinic was a fat, apathetic looking black woman. As we walked in she gave Lydia a knowing look. “Back again?” she asked, displeased. I then explained that it was in fact me who needed the pill, not Lydia. Despite looking suspicious, she complied. Then, after spending twenty minutes in a cubicle discussing my menstrual cycles in vapid detail with a small Chinese man in a lab coat, I emerged with the magical baby-killing tablet in hand. Lydia was seated in the waiting room, staring intensely at a pamphlet that read Educate Yourself about HIV and AIDS. Her forehead was covered in droplets of sweat and the look of fear boiled within her eyes.
“Oh my God!” she shouted as I approached her. “You were right! I do have AIDS.” She looked as if she was about to cry and she had massive, yellow sweat stains under her armpits. “I never really knew exactly what AIDS was until just now, but, like, seriously, I’m positive I have all the symptoms.”
“I need an AIDS test!” screamed Lydia at the woman seated at reception, causing her to jump halfway out of her chair.
“We do tests every Monday,” she said, looking slightly repulsed. “Can you come back then? Do you have any reason to believe you might have contracted HIV?”
“Monday! Oh my God! I’ll be dead by then!” shouted Lydia in a panic. “Well, then, can I have a pregnancy test?”
The woman looked confused. “How many days late are you?”
“Well, then, no. You have to be at least a week late to warrant taking a pregnancy test. When was your last period?”
“Last week,” said Lydia frantically. “But seriously, I just know I’m pregnant. Well, I’m either pregnant or I have AIDS. One of the two.”
“Look, why don’t you go in for a short consultation with our nurse,” said the woman with what seemed like the last ounce of her energy. “He can give you some information on methods of contraception and STD prevention. I think you need it.”
Lydia emerged from her meeting with the small Chinese man fifteen minutes later with a gigantic grin on her face. She was holding what looked like a small tube of white cream.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s my medication,” she said.
“What kind of medication? AIDS medication? Pregnancy Mediation?” I was in the dark.
“No, it’s thrush cream!” she smiled happily. I have a yeast infection! See, I knew there was something wrong with me. I have a very strong female ammunition.”
“You mean female intuition?” I was fighting the urge to smash myself over the head with the complimentary fish bowl of blueberry-flavored condoms.
“Umm… yeah. Female ammunition. That’s what I said.”
This is more of my sex column for Platform Platform Platform…