Humor: People keep telling me I have “it,” and by “it,” they mean HPV.

And by people I mean doctors.

It all started when I walked into the room. Everyone in it was blown away — I could see it on their faces. These shocked expressions and dropped jaws have become standard reactions to my presence. I turn and talk to a woman in the room. She looks me in the eyes, slightly shaken; she seems a bit shocked by my calmness.

“You have warts on your arm,” she says.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I reply.

“No, really, you have an infection,” she states. “Have you been sexually active lately?”

“Maybe, why do you ask?” I answer with a wink.

“Because I’m your doctor and I need a straightforward answer.” Dr. Karonelli wasn’t playing any games. I proceeded to tell her my sexual history, all of the dirty details she wanted.

“You need to put on this cream twice a day,” she prescribes.

“Will you do it for me?” I plead.

“Get out,” she demands frustratingly.

I leave without a phone number, though she did note her email on this prescription pad. I read it outside while smoking a cigarette.

“What are you doing?” It’s her again — Dr K. I knew she couldn’t resist.

“Funny seeing you here, outside the hospital, doctor.” I say smoothly.

“You need to quit smoking immediately,” Dr. K. said. “I told you that was one of the ways to inflame the disease. Put that out now.”

“What, so I can live longer so you can flirt with me some more? I don’t think so, Doc. I’m riding on my own wave and there’s no shark that’s worth diving for.” I reply.

“God, I hope nobody is dumb enough to have sex with you,” she says.

“I don’t know doctor, are you?” I respond hopefully.

I am no longer allowed to visit the Balboa Hospital, but I know one thing for sure: I’m absolutely positive — HPV-positive.

Written by: Beck Nava — rnavamcclellan@ucdavis.edu

(This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)