Itchy in Iceland

At almost 22 years old, I still hadn’t had a real boyfriend. My love life up to that point consisted of unrequited crushes, celebrity obsessions, and a few random hook-ups, my virginity zapped by a guy who’d told me I’d be hotter if I worked out. Next time I saw him he’d introduced me to his girlfriend.

Bill (not his real name) seemed immediately different. We met at a bar in Burlington, Vermont, just before Halloween, him with slightly crooked teeth and a sprinkling of gray at his temples. When I bravely told him he could kiss me if he carved the mini pumpkin decorating our table, he pulled out a Swiss Army and jabbed it right in.

Soon I’d discover that he was gentle and calm, so unlike the roaring college boys I knew. He’d just turned 31 and owned a mobile home on Lake Champlain and most amazingly, he was invested in my orgasms. The next morning I awoke to him leaning against my bed with the newspaper and two steaming hot chocolates.

A few weeks after Bill and I got together, I had a week off of school for Thanksgiving break and joined my dad, stepmom, and four younger sisters on a trip to Iceland. I flew across the Atlantic blasting The Cure on my headphones, visualizing every song as a movie montage of my time with Bill—him reaching for my hand on icy sidewalks, morning talks in bed, pancakes at the diner. Though I’d just seen him the night before, I pined for him as I’d pined for Dylan McKay and Rob Lowe and some aloof upperclassman for years—only this time my fantasies were based on actualities, a tingling deep in my groin.

The next day, lounging on the hotel bed watching TV with my sisters, the tingling became a hot angry itch. I scratched, and it got way worse. After shaving off all my pubic hair I told myself the itch was from that, but I knew something was wrong. Could it be a yeast infection? Definitely nothing serious, not after being so good about condoms.

Darkness settled in by 3pm, and the cold was the same as Vermont, jeans like razor blades when you pulled them on. We explored geysers and hot springs, circling the island on its one main road, an eerie sparse moonscape unlike anything I’d ever seen. My interior landscape, too, felt new—missing someone who might be missing me back, someone I could drop details about in the rented van. How to gush, though, about the way Bill asked follow-up questions when sharing about our days, his squinty-eyed smile when I was on top?

As I was floating in the Blue Lagoon—huge and touristy and yet somehow still mystical, the sky strewn with milky pink and green clusters of stars—a slow spool of thoughts unraveled. Were there STDs that condoms didn’t protect against? Was I sure that I was the only person Bill had been greeting with morning donuts?

I toweled off away from my sisters, embarrassed of my clean-shaven look, weirdly like a little girl again. The itching had mostly subsided but something was still off. I remembered Bill chuckling at the piles of books around my bedroom, how he’d said, I’ll make you a bookcase. How many shelves? Him doing carpentry for me, him fucking another woman—both like screwdrivers into my heart.

A few days later when I was back at my apartment, suitcase ruptured, I couldn’t make my fingers dial his number. By noon I was at Planned Parenthood. In the small exam room I said it aloud just before she did: Crabs.

The nice, slightly bewildered nurse—You were in Iceland? You tried to shave them off?—patiently answered my questions. No, I didn’t infect all of the Blue Lagoon; those suckers clung tightly to me, their host. She told me exactly how to get rid of them and said not to feel bad, it happens to lots of people.

I bought the stuff and scrubbed in an anxiously long shower, rueful with the realization that yes, there was at least one STD with no regard for condoms. He called, finally, said he couldn’t wait to hear about my trip, When are you coming over? I brushed my teeth, examined my shiny scoured vagina, and slipped on my plainest cotton underwear—the closest thing in my mind to a chastity belt. No matter how tempted I was to sleep with him, no way would I let Bill see me without sexy undies.

Still rosy from my shower, I surged with anger most of the drive, knowing that he’d been dishonest somehow. I’d already worked out that I didn’t give crabs to him because I hadn’t been with anyone else since summertime. My mind swerved—was the whole toilet seat thing real?—but quickly righted (I always, always squatted!)

We chatted for a bit on his small worn couch; I told him about how the pure bred Icelandic horses can never return if they leave the island, Bill told me of the lovely maple wood he’d found for my bookshelf. When he leaned in for a kiss, I demurred: Just a sec, gotta pee. It felt natural, toeing open the cabinet under the sink while on his toilet, and there it was—the exact same bottle of RID now hidden under my bathroom sink. A half-answer that gave rise to more questions: When did he realize? And why hadn’t he said anything? I sent the door closed with a kick; time to confront him.

Then his voice, silky from down the tiny hallway—Aren’t you coming to bed?—and maybe it was the anticipation of his laundry smell and worn fingertips, the sweaty beating-heart tenderness that was the best thing I’d known in 22 years, but, undies be damned, I heard myself crooning, Yep. I’m coming.