Why People Clap for Me

The second to worst thing that you can do in the bathroom of a party house (where the lines for bathrooms are notoriously long and dripping with mob mentality) is s**t. The exact worst thing you can do is knock the only roll of toilet paper into the used toilet beneath you. I managed to do this once, and thanked Karma that at that time no one was waiting to use the facility. There was nothing I could do, in that state and place, which could have saved me from unanimous social condemnation from the fifty or so people in the house. So I used some tissue from the dry side of the roll and left it on the edge of the bath tub and festering in my conscience for the rest of the night.

            

It so happened that the owner of the house was evicted, two weeks later, because other drug dealers kept robbing him, and so my roommate and I, desperate to fill our house, gladly took him in. Inevitably our house became the foster party house off campus, and within a week we were throwing large scale keggers, and running out of toilet paper.

          

Now one night I noticed that we were down to our last roll. It had clearly been wet at some point, and I wondered if my new roommate had for some ungodly reason saved the roll that I’d soiled, perhaps assuming the best and not wanting to waste it. I held my tongue, for the same reason I had before, but felt exceptionally guilty every time I saw the room occupied.

But my life does not revolve around toilet paper. In fact there are women I love, and after months of missing one I decided to go to her, and to tell her without shame how I’d loved her after we’d stopped seeing each other. How she’d played in my mind, and worked at my heart, since I’d seen her last.

            “There’s something I should tell you,” I said, as some immense barrier between us broke for the first time since awkward silence had built it up. “You’re a great person and you’re going to have a beautiful life. I’ll miss you. A lot. I always have,” I said.

          

She swayed a little and smiled more and then said, “There’s something I should tell you,” very slowly. I waited. “I went to my annual check-up and I tested positive for gonorrhea.” She explained information about testing and treatment to me.

       

“What are the chances that I have it?” I asked, wanting desperately to ask how many men she’d been with since me.

         “Let’s just say I’ve been busy,” she said. We shared a laugh. It was one of the things that I loved about her actually. She was a woman of the world, and I liked that she wasn’t ashamed of going to different countries and sleeping with different people. I’m that way, in my heart. I felt nothing of jealousy; I only wished I could have been them, discovering this exotic travelling lover. But even that we had met like two exotic birds, disconnected from the rest of the world, was enough for me.

            While I waited to be tested a thought of extreme terror seized me. Not only was it possible that I had been infected with gonorrhea, it was possible that I had infected a roll of toilet paper that dozens of people had later unwittingly used. To have to tell a handful of people that I’d had sex with that they might have an STD was horrifying. To have to explain to dozens of relative strangers, male and female, that I gave them Gonorrhea, was beyond consternation.

            And it happened. The tests came back positive. I asked my new roommate if he had kept, for some ungodly reason, a roll of toilet paper that had gotten wet one night. He said that he had, because it looked clean, and toilet paper is expensive. I asked him if he’d used it. He had. I told him that perhaps he should get tested. He did, and he was positive. I asked him what the chances were that he’d gotten it from me. He was a virgin.

            What’s the best way to explain to dozens of strangers that they might have Gonorrhea? Do you try to emphasize the fact that, in a way, you were just sharing some of the most ancient and enduring aspects of western civilization? I don’t know. I just threw a party and drank until alcohol blackout before announcing that I had an apology for everyone.

             When college kids find out that somebody has had the clap, they clap. When you walk into the library and everybody starts clapping and cat calling about Gonorrhea, everyone in your college knows you have had the clap. When that happens, you start seeing the story pop up as narrated by sorority girls. And when that happens, your STD makes you internet famous, which is like being Ted Bundy famous, but no one is afraid of you.

            So now when I come within viewing distance of a college people clap for me. When I go to college bars they cheer. If I try to defend myself I get a standing ovation. If I fight over it I face someone who looses the joke and the smile and kicks my a*s because in their eyes that disease made me subhuman, and they don’t need to care why or how or what now. I’m the kid who gave a college class the clap.

            That’s my life now. Because I laid down with a girl. Because when she talked of lovers from over seas I felt sophisticated. Because when I think back to nights with her they involve dark eyes blooming intensely with each thrust I gave, and when we joked about the price of Plan B in different countries I felt like I was with someone proud and free. Well that’s why I don’t care when people clap for me.

Author's Note

Any suggestions on how to make the love story more believable, interesting, meaningful?

Reviews

[tamsen grier]

This is great: funny but smart and well written. I also like the lack of self-consciousness the speaker shows about the situation. It also provides a glimpse into the sometimes bizarre world of college today...sometimes during my undergrad days I felt like I was permanently trapped in some Theater of the Absurd piece. Looking forward to reading more of your work!

[Epipsychologist]

Thank you Tamsen,

I always feel guilty when I've been neglecting WC, and lately I have. But in a couple of weeks I think I should have another collegey comedy, perhaps equally absurd. I hope that your days after undergrad resume the absurdity at some point.

[Marie]

Oh it was believable, interesting, and meaningful beyond anything I had reason to expect of a story.

[Epipsychologist]

Thanks Marie.
I was afraid the dirty subject matter in the beginning would deter people from reading to the actual emotional part. Which I guess is how stigmas work. People don't care to analyze somebody else because it is enough to be disgusted by them.
Thanks for reading and for your positive feedback.

[Marie]

You did understand that I was being sarcastic didn't you?

[Epipsychologist]

Of course, sarcasm translates into text so well.

[Marie]

I think Im reading your sarcasm here.

[Pax]

you made it more interesting my friend... the story held me till the ending.... its very realistic that made me wonder is this your life your talking about or just a story... great job!

[Epipsychologist]

Ha No! Please no! don't think that. I'm actually worried to show my friends this. There was a weird set of circumstances that made me imagine this, and realize it's the type of thing that sounds like it could be true enough to spread like a rumor, like a disease.

Thanks for the review Pax.

[Pax]

i was right after all... its was just a story.... the realistic feel on it makes it really good my friend... maybe because you charted a situation that many people might had experience(not me though...but its what i see in the tv most)....and your most welcome...