Words by: Shabnam Sidhu
Artwork by: Ava Toon

He was hot, but he called me Sabrina and gave me a yeast infection…

Not only was my ego bruised, but a week later I was rudely interrupted by sudden twinges in my vagina. Each physical pang felt increasingly unbearable as I gaslit myself into thinking my pain stemmed from my other mundane worries, but not for a moment did I contemplate why those worries would manifest as burning in my vagina. I was convinced that my vaginal spasms were part of my daily series of hallucinations and that a quiet, afternoon nap would cure me of my delusions.

To restore peace, I hastily reached for my compact mirror, spread my legs, and flashed it at my vagina. To my horror, it was filled with chunks of cottage cheese-like discharge. I felt distraught. The appearance of my vagina distinctly resembled a Lovecraftian nightmare.

Having experienced my fair share of UTIs in the past, the feeling felt familiar. As opposed to thinking
I had contracted the worst, a single Google search describing the ‘white, itchy discharge’ I was experiencing within my fragile, inner ecosystem confirmed the obvious. I had thrush, otherwise known as a yeast infection.

Pharmacist: You reckon you’ve got THRUSH? Is it itchy, cottage-cheese discharge?

Upon loudly exposing my condition, I was left stranded at the front of a very long line of people whilst the pharmacist sifted through boxes of prescribed medications in the back.

My thoughts began to spiral.

‘Everyone gets a yeast infection once in a while, right?’

‘I’m sure it’s not always from sex but do the people behind me know that?’

‘Am I being slut-shamed right now?’

‘Wait, am I slut-shaming myself?’

‘Do men get yeast infections?’

‘Did I remember to pee after sex?

Pharmacist: Have you taken this before? Do you know how to use it?

Me: Yes, no wait, no, but I’m sure I can figure it out.

Pharmacist: So, you take the syringe, there’s six of them, one for each day, and fill it up with the cream.

Me: I think I can read the rest of the instructions.

Pharmacist: You need to get on your back and bring your knees to your chest. Position the syringe at the opening of your vagina. In fact, you can even push it in a little, just to make sure it all gets in there, you know?

Me: I really need to leave, could I just pay for this?

Pharmacist: Remember to push it all the way in. It might feel a little cold and it might drip out a little but that’s very normal.

Me *glaring at this point*: Thank you so much for your help! Have a good day!

Pharmacist *shouting as I walked away*: Oh, and if it doesn’t go away, do get tested. It might be chlamydia.

I rushed to leave the pharmacy as a sea of eyes gawked at me.

‘Do they not know that it’s not contagious?’

My very private condition had become so alarmingly public in the most embarrassing way possible. It felt infuriating, yet I couldn’t help but think how comical the whole ordeal was. This all occurred because I was horny and sought casual sex in the most accessible way possible, through Tinder. Not only did this horny spell end up being costly but it was also, very awkwardly, a case of mistaken identity.

Was the whole ordeal a distressing experience? Yes.

Do I regret it? No.

If anything, the self-consciousness I experienced felt valiant. Despite facing immense physical discomfort, I prevailed in sourcing a cure for my condition.

And just like most things, my self-consciousness stemmed from how I felt about myself as opposed to what others thought about me. As I reflect on it now, having my yeast infection addressed so publicly felt liberating. I did not have to hide that I was indeed having a terrible day.

What everyone else thought about me — if they even cared to pay attention, meant little to nothing as I no longer had anything to hide.

As I walked home, all I could think about was taking a well-deserved afternoon nap, that is, after I apply my thrush cream as per the pharmacist’s instructions.