The Seven Deadly Sins: Lust

When asked for a list of my sexual partners since then, I was able to give him John's real name, but not even the forename of the salesman I'd picked up. I gave him Dave's name, of course. If I'd passed it on to him, I would never be able to live with myself.

The doctor took some blood, wearing both gloves and a mask. I was told to abstain from any type of sexual activity, fat bloody chance, and report back the following week.

The next week, I did return and they confirmed the bad news. The doctor said he was no expert on Syphilis, but from my current symptoms, I'd almost certainly progressed to the tertiary stage. He went on to explain that some people lived normal lives, never even knowing they had it, but listed the possible effects including heart problems and early onset dementia. The government clinic's brief was to get rid of the bacterium from my system, hunt down any people I'd spread it to and any other steps to eradicate it. He emphasised that any treatment after that was my responsibility. I asked him for any local specialists he could recommend, he left the office to make enquiries.

While he was away, I flicked through my file on his desk and struck gold dust. Dave's work and new cell numbers. I'd tried ringing Dave at work but he never answered. Two weeks after he'd disappeared, I'd rung it and another guy answered; like Dave had a new number. The new guy refused to give me Dave's number.

The doctor returned with the name I'd asked for. He gave me copies of the relevant laws saying I was to refrain from all sexual activities until three months after I was cleared of all infection. I was also required to inform all sexual partners, before sex occurred, for two years from that date.

I wandered out of the clinic in a daze, imagining my future sex life. 'Excuse me, would you like to be my boyfriend? I'm a divorcee, who cheated on her husband with multiple men. You probably won't be able to satisfy me as I've had a threesome that showed me how sex could be. Do you mind if I keep the lights off? I'm a little sensitive because I haven't been able to shift the weight I put on while pregnant and depressed. Please don't kiss my belly. I'm sensitive about my caesarean scar. Oh, and by the way, in line with the Infectious Diseases Act 1994. I have to tell you, I had Syphilis last year.'

I'm trying really hard not to say, 'things can't get any worse'. Every time I say that, they do. I managed to get a specialist appointment fairly quickly. They ran a battery of tests and happily announced I had neurosyphilis. The infection had damaged my central nervous system. The only good news was that after the bacterium was killed, I wouldn't degenerate past my current mild dementia. Better add to that request to future potential boyfriends above, 'oh, and I may have trouble remembering your name, but nothing personal'.

I drifted out of the specialist's rooms. My only chance of living a normal life, was by getting Dave to forgive me. Surely now he could see how I'd suffered. Surely, his honour would now be satisfied. I would never stray again, that was for sure. It hurt too much. I'm sure he still loves me. He certainly would never deliberately hurt me. I planned my speech, relying heavily on pathos. It was underhanded, I know, but I was desperate. I rang Dave from a public phone so he didn't recognise my number.

"Hello. Centre of Tropical Disease Research, David, speaking."

I fainted. There in the bloody street, I fainted.

THE END

Don't bother googling African syphilis. It doesn't exist. I invented it to justify how tertiary Syphilis developed so fast. Some might call that a plot device, some cheating.

Now lighten the fuck up.

Two parachutists are free falling head to head. One says to the other, "I really don't know how your chute is going to go. I was a little distracted when I packed it by the fact that you fucked my wife."