I Gave Crabs To Absolutely Everyone - Including (Potentially) My Boss And My PARENTS

I got an STD that infested like a pandemic and went international. Yes, in 1993, my sex life was sponsored by R.I.D.

Hello sweetpeas!

Here it is! It Happened To Me #10,000!!!!

Not really, because I haven't counted, but that's an estimate of how many of these things I've published since that first one back in Sassy magazine in 1988. And yet, each one is different like a snowflake or a fingerprint or your tongue or your ears. Apparently there is a one in 64 billion chance of any of those other things matching, so one day in the future, there likely will be an overlapping IHTM too, but I suggest we don't tell that writer. I’ll publish it, praise their openness for telling it and we can all just let them think their little futuristic story is unique, yes?

Anyway, back to today, I was thrilled to get this It Happened To Me story submission for a few reasons. I spent the day with the family of my friend who was killed at the apartment where he was killed. (I can't wait until legally we can safely tell you all about that.) I love that family so much. I'm also drained and having trouble accessing some basic words. (Maybe because I cared so much about my word choices all day? Like a mutation of decision fatigue? That’s how I’m diagnosing it until I hear your better theories.)

So on my way home, I was going through my constant mental checklist of what I have in varying stages of editing for you. (Current count: one almost-finished Unpopular Opinion column I’m writing, two stories for the Looks category, one It Happened To Me, and two more Unpopular Opinions. They are all surprising and so good, so stick around! And now that I think of it, maybe that checklist is what’s taking up the brainspace those common words need!) Well, I was so glad to have this lighter article (for readers at least) to give to you - and me - today.

This is a true story, every word, lovingly written by someone whose real name is not Darcy.

I love you beyond.

xo Jane (who has never had crabs and would tell you if I had - it’s actually a miracle that I’ve never had an STD or accidental pregnancy because god knows I’ve taken zero precautions starting from age 17 on. Anything else you wanna know about me, just ask! Or stay tuned for that memoir!)

PS I will be curious to see if this writer decides to reveal their identity in the comments of this piece or not. It has happened before in this shame-free (or even shame-celebrating) zone of ours. So up to her!

By “Darcy”

It was the year of our Lord, 1993. Demi Moore had two hits in theaters—A Few Good Men and then that hooker-lite fever dream Indecent Proposal. All I really remember is that killer black cut-out Thierry Mugler dress—one of the most iconic fashion moments of the decade. It wasn’t just a costume; it was a statement. And Robert Redford (RIP) just casually bought it for her without batting a perfectly sanctioned blond eyelash.

Meanwhile, I was working at “The Heritage,” a downtown San Francisco art gallery, slinging paintings to tourists. Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” dominated the Billboard charts, which was ironic considering I’m not a love-lorn or romantic gal by nature. I like pasta. I like red wine. And I like to get laid.

Whooping it up: Please notice my strap-on penis dangling from this David Hasselhoff costume....

So in 1993, I was single and on the prowl.

I had sex with three Daves in one week. Therefore, I cannot conclusively say which Dave gave me crabs. I think.

When you’re trying to relax on the beach but the sand crabs feel a little too familiar.

I was sick with the flu, lying in my lady-boss’s loft apartment in the Castro where I was house-sitting—probably watching The X-Files or Frasier. My crotch itched, so I reached through my underwear and scratched. When I pulled my hand out, a teeny-tiny red crab—gripping a single pubic hair like it was climbing Everest—began marching down my index finger.

I thought, “Fuck. I’ve got crabs.” But I am a stoic woman. I am not prone to histrionics or squealing, “let’s get shottttttsss!!!”. I probably just sighed and thought, “Hmmm. Not cool, Dave. Not cool,” and then plodded down to Rite-Aid for R.I.D. to get rid of those nasty little buggers.

Retracing my sexual CSI timeline, I concluded I got the VD from Dave #1.

Dave #1 and I met at an Italian buffet near the gallery. He told me he was moving to Chicago in a week and said, quite directly, “Well, if you ever want to fuck me, now’s your time.” So I did.

Cut to us in the swanky Castro aerie I was house-sitting, pretending I owned a real estate loft and screwed it out. We’d been flirting and egging each other on for weeks. It became a challenge of “how fast you can orgasm” competition:
Him: “I bet I can make you come in less than 2 minutes.”
Me: “Prove it.”
I recall we even got kinky with some cucumbers in my fridge.

Now, I should preemptively say: I had A LOT of sex this week. I am still, even 20+ years later, a horn-dog. But this was a particularly “busy” week for bumping uglies. And at this point, I didn’t know I was harboring tiny stowaways in my pubes.

When I wasn’t spreading crabs, I modeled in this Japanese ad for the hot workout device, The Abdo Roller!

Because after Dave #1 came Dave #2: a camp counselor for wayward teenage boys. Trust me—this gets so much worse than you think.

IF THIS CLIFFHANGER DOESN’T MAKE YOU CHANGE YOUR SUBSCRIPTION TO BE ABLE TO KEEP READING BELOW, you are a far better person than I am. And I would pay for you to teach me about willpower. Love, Jane