Last night was a typical Friday evening that consisted of curling up on the couch with a mug of peppermint tea, staring at the wall, and thinking about sexually transmitted infections. With The Wallflowers playing in the background, I became nostalgic for the 90s and began reflecting about my early sex education in junior high.
If you had a similar experience as my own, sex education was a one-day lecture within the general health class. I did not learn about masturbation, sexual orientation, sexual decision making, or the importance of assertive communication within intimate relationships. Instead, I learned how sex was going to kill me.
This death was not going to be quick from cardiac arrest following the bliss of an orgasm. No, this death would take its time, slowly filling my body with pus-filled sores until I resembled a biblical leper. And as I lie writhing in pain, shunned by my family and friends, with blood oozing from every orifice, I would take my last breath cursing the day I decided to fornicate.
If this vivid message wasn’t enough, the health teacher dimmed the lights and turned on the slide projector for the visual aids segment. With the shuffle of the carousel slide, the first photo was projected and was met with gasps from my peers. Featured was a close-up of a penis (circa 1972) with genital warts. There wasn’t one pinhead-sized wart at the base of the penis. Instead the warts sprouted like cauliflower, enveloping the entirety of the man’s penis head.
The second shuffling of the carousel projected a herpes outbreak. It was a close-up of a woman’s vulva (circa 1966) that looked as though it was hit with buckshot. The tiny red sores peppered the vulva from pubes to anus and glistened from the flash of the camera. I began struggling keeping down the red slushie and Fudge Rounds I consumed 30 minutes prior to this visual onslaught of horror.
The carousel rotated once more. Secondary stage syphilitic rash.
Gonorrheal drip.
Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions.
Infant herpetic conjunctivitis.
I sat wide-eyed and disgusted. My genitals retreated to an internal cavity. I could no longer hear what the teacher was saying. My eyes were the only remaining sense that continued to absorb the slideshow of grotesque infections.
Finally, there was a blank slide. The lights were flipped back on and I gazed around the room to regain my bearings. I was no longer looking at the pretty girls in class and trying to conjure up the nerve to ask them out. I looked at them like they were walking death vaginas.
I felt my skin crawling with pubic lice. I convinced myself my acne was syphilis. I left the room no longer feeling like a sexual being. I was repulsed and ashamed. Sex was going to kill me. It didn’t matter who I was, what behaviors I would be engaging in, or what part of the world I resided, sexually transmitted infections were going to hunt me down and slaughter me.
The scare tactic was unbearable. I did my best to suppress the mental remains of the images for the rest of the day. The cognitive dissonance escalated. Sex was supposed to be something fun, right? But sex is going to kill me?
Later that evening, after watching a couple of syndicated episodes of Married…with Children, the former belief overtook the new information I consumed that day in health class. Christina Applegate helped rejuvenate my interest in sex. The cognitive dissonance disappeared.
However, for the remainder of the year in health class, the carousel of death sat in the corner of the room poised to stigmatize the sinful.
To be continued…




