CLAP

Maclovio O'Malley, la Voz de los Vatos, noticed the irritation a few days after he had picked up the maid from San Luis at one of the 14th St. cantinas. At first he had hoped it was his jeans rubbing against the head of his penis since he hadn't been wearing briefs. A pile of dirty clothes in his bathroom was a testimony to his laziness.

The next day the evidence told a different story. When he awoke in the morning, he gripped his cock and pus dripped forth. He had the clap. During the late sixties and early seventies gonorrhea had been a regular occurrence. A trip to the county clinic and a shot of penicillin in the butt cured the problem. A week later Maclovio would be back on the streets having unprotected sex with as many as three or four different partners in a week.

Sex had been as commonplace and as recreational as getting together with a buddy for a game of tennis. It was little more than good exercise. AIDS, however, had changed the nonchalant attitude that had prevailed in his youth. Every encounter might be an introduction to death. The promiscuity of the baby-boom generation had shattered the natural laws of biology and the repercussions were sweeping away the guilty and innocent alike. How many wives were paying the price for their husbands' excesses?

As a result of this decadent reality, Maclovio had reversed the condom process. While he might forgo protection at a chance meeting, he used a condom with his wife. Maclovio would be the first to admit that his existence was a sad one, but it was the only one he had known.

He took a piss. The evidence was incontrovertible: The stinging sensation had transformed into a full-blown burn. He was too old for this shit. He stared into the mirror and squeezed out a half dozen blackheads. They reminded him that his blood ran adolescent hot and that he would never transcend his animalistic state until his hormones evaporated and left a lump between his legs. Thankfully, he wasn't a rapist although bets would be off if he were leading a conquering army.

Maclovio had to call Dr. Pangloss. He must submit to a blood test for AIDS, syphilis, hepatitis and the many other diseases and infections that he feared might be coursing through his system. He knew that he didn't have many years left. His heart was sputtering and the proctologist was reaping an annual crop of fresh polyps from his colon. He would die of cardiac arrest, a stroke or cancer before AIDS slayed him.

He wondered how many AIDS infected individuals were purposely spreading their death seed in order to exact revenge for their bad luck? He hoped his own vindictiveness wouldn't spur him to such extremes. With AIDS his hopes of meeting his soulmate were probably over.

He was curious if Dr. Pangloss had access to pills that would deaden his penis without shriveling him into a shuffling fool. Mystics achieved nirvana by forsaking sex. It would be liberating to exist for a few months without the incessant pressure pounding him, attacking him and leaving him paralyzed with a mounting guilt once he ejaculated. It would be interesting to deal with women disembodied from their sexuality.

He might not need drugs or alcohol anymore. He could vegetate in a meditative state. He could reconstruct his family life. His wife would flourish without sex as long as there was a provider who wasn't crushing her with his constant needs. He would become a hollowed-out ghost who had turned inward and was endeavoring to become one with all. The incandescent essence that was his ego would extinguish itself. He would join the walking dead.