Let’s Talk About STIs, False Positives, and the Strength of Making The Call

TikTok video from 2023-05-10

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The STI Scare That Made Me a Better Lover

Whew. Okay.

This one is tender, raw, and surprisingly empowering. I want to write about it like I wish someone had written it for me before I had to learn it the hard way.

Let’s talk STIs.

Yes, those awkward, often-stigmatized, “we-don’t-talk-about-that” parts of being sexually active adults. Especially those of us who are ethically, non-monogamous (ENM). Especially those of us who are post-40, rediscovering our bodies and sexuality with a whole new level of freedom—and risk.

So here's the truth:

I had a chlamydia scare.

Not just the whisper of a possibility or the “hey, you should probably get checked” text from a friend-of-a-friend. A real, official, positive test result. My stomach dropped the moment I saw it. You know that tight, hollow feeling where everything gets quiet inside your body and your brain starts racing?

That.

Here’s what happened.

The lover in question was someone I hadn’t been with often. We’d shared intimacy a handful of times, but he wasn’t a regular in my rotation. If I’m honest, part of the reason we weren’t closer was because I had a feeling—a quiet inner voice—that he wasn’t vetting his partners as carefully as I needed him to.

That whisper turned into a full-body exhale when I found out he’d tested positive.
And shortly after, I did too.

Between my last STI screening and that moment, I’d had a lot of play partners. I contacted them all. They tested immediately. All came back negative.

So I started to connect the dots.
This didn’t start with me.
But that didn’t mean it hadn’t spread through me.

Here’s where it got real.

I started making a list.
Mentally, then physically.
Every person I’d been intimate with—penetrative or not—since that partner (which had been nearly 8 months since our last intimacy). Because this isn’t just about P-in-V sex. This is about shared space, shared fluids, shared bodies. And I realized just how wide that web had grown.

There was The Dragon in Salt Lake City—an unexpected one-night flame.
Another SLC partner I hadn’t seen since.
The Wizard in Vegas—our play was more about touch and energy than penetration, but still intimate enough to warrant disclosure.
Then my recent vacation with Orion, which had been so deeply nourishing.
A reconnection with Bravo, whose name alone brings a smile to my face.
A few past lovers—friends who drift in and out of town and, occasionally, into my bed.
And yes, Hollywood, that beautiful, brief wildfire.

And then there was Luke.

Luke and I have shared deep intimacy and have a long-standing openness in our dynamic. Within the potential exposure window, he and I had engaged in swaps—threesome or foursome-style exchanges where we brought other people into our play.

Two swaps were with the same couple. One was with a man I’d been dating and a woman Luke had been curious about.

So I picked up my phone.
Took a deep breath.
And I started making calls.

I can’t explain what that felt like. There was a moment of fear, of course. A quiet, internal shame voice whispered, “What will they think of you?”

But I didn’t listen.

Because here’s what I know to be true:
Responsibility is love in action.

So I told the truth.

“Hey, I need to let you know—I’ve just tested positive for chlamydia. I’m getting a re-test to confirm, but in the meantime, I wanted to tell you so you can take care of yourself too.”

And you know what?

Every single one of them responded with grace.
Every single one said, “Thanks for telling me.”
Every single one said, “I’ll go get tested right away.”
And in the days that followed, every single one came back negative.

Which—if you know anything about how easily chlamydia spreads—told me something important:

I never had it in the first place.

It was a false positive.

But the process I went through? The radical honesty? The moment of holding all these people’s safety and well-being alongside my own?

That was one of the most intimate things I’ve ever done.

I’ve had powerful sex. I’ve shared bodies and energy and pleasure and tears. But this—this level of care, accountability, and no-shame clarity—this was a new layer of intimacy.

It made me a better lover. A better communicator.
It made me braver.

STIs aren’t a moral failure. They’re a part of life. A part of being a human who loves and touches and connects and explores.

The way we talk about STIs—especially in ethical non-monogamy and dating—is broken.
It’s filled with fear and judgment and silence.

But the truth is, it only works if we’re radically honest.
If we prioritize safety and compassion without shaming each other—or ourselves.

So here’s what I learned from my false positive:

I’m stronger than I thought.
My lovers are more compassionate than I feared.
And open-hearted connection is possible, even in the uncomfortable moments.

And if you’ve ever had to make a similar call—or might someday—I want you to know:

You are not dirty.
You are not broken.
You are not “too much.”
You are accountable.
You are caring.
You are doing it right.

This is what grown-up, embodied, heart-forward sexuality looks like.
It’s not always sexy.
But it’s always sacred.