Happy VD

Something was definitely wrong. I’d always laughed about burning piss, but holy fuck, this was no joke. My dick felt like it was on fire, and not in the good way. I’d been on the prowl a lot since Debbie dumped me, tagging a groupie at every gig. Best way to get over one woman is to get over another few.

I googled my symptoms. See a health professional was the common thread in every result. Better get to the clinic.

The drive was uncomfortable with my swollen balls practically needing to ride shotgun. I was sweating bullets and had the mouth sweats, way too much bourbon last night. I rolled up and parked my ride, a sweet 280Z from 1993.

The sun beat down on me as I crossed the parking lot, managing to plant my foot in a wad of gum that had plans of its own. Hell, maybe it needed a dick exam, too. After scraping my shoe on the edge of the curb, I opened the door, the blast of bought air reminding me to be cool, so I kept my shades on.

There was this foxy little chick behind the window. I could tell she had a tight little Ferrari body under those scrubs. I picked up the pen tethered to the sign in sheet. It was dry. I blasted her with my look, green eyes shooting arrows at her over the rim of my sunglasses. “Do you have another pen? This one doesn’t work.”

She shot icicles back and handed me a crappy Papermate with ink that skipped. Whatever. I gave the pen back to the ice princess and turned away to choose a seat.

“Wait!” Was the frigid front desk thawing? “You need to fill out these.” She handed me a clipboard with forms. “Front and back.” I’d like to see her front from the back.

I sat down with my clipboard next to a fake plant on a table with magazines from the Obama administration and got to work. I fucking hate forms. If I have a chart, why can’t they just look at it instead of making me fill out these forms every damn time I come in?

My sack felt like it weighed a ton, threatening to pull me down through the chair into the belly of the earth. Then I thought about the Q-tip, and my dick ran for cover between my enormous, throbbing balls. I breezed through the stuff you have to fill out everywhere: name, address, social, etc. Then I got to reason for visit. Symptoms, yeah, but follow-up/recheck? Was it cheaper if it was a follow up? I wouldn't know, I only came in when I had problems. I went ahead and checked it, just in case it would lower the cost.

Number of sexual partners. Damn. Oh, yeah. I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through my photos, stopping when it was a form or letter or something. Gas bill, power bill, water bill, phone bill, scroll. Bills. Band schedule. Bills. Song I’m working on. New band schedule. Scroll. Got it.

Okay, counting forward from last time I filled out these forms, my ritual de lo habitual, if I were lucky enough to be Duff McKagan.

Note: if you want to skip choosing a character, you can, but you’ll miss out on most of the story.

If you’re still reading, does anyone remember choose your own adventure books?

Let’s play choose your own character.

Should I throw a cutoff notice or two, eviction notice, further slacker evidence? You’re looking for a classic antihero. Click here and follow Jim Jabowski: Busted!

Or is he basically a good dude who got dumped about this amount of time ago, getting his life back together, 3 months is a respectable amount of time to have nothing much going on in your life? Rock Bottom with Mark Johnson is for you. Go ahead and click it.

I can stretch this in any direction. You want an absolutely absurdly happy ending with a stand up dude as the hero? Working Title with Jim Fitzpatrick is your clickbait.

Is he somewhere in between? Be patient. You’ll still be interested after I pass out some candy and a rock, We’ll come back to him. Turn to anything you feel like or click here: The Plot Thickens with Mike Turner is who you’re hanging out with.

Oh, you want him to be truly bad, like evil? Sick fuckers, click here: Rewind with Tom Testino will take you down those dark alleys you’re craving.

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖

Good lord, that was excruciating. To round it all out, when I gave my card to the frigid front desk, it was declined. Dignity was a distant memory.

Author Note: This, in addition to being cross between a traditional short story and a choose your own adventure story has a third genre: educational—if you follow all if the links, it’s also a lesson about writing character-driven fiction.