Fiction: Wash Your Hands After Sex

By Elizabeth Monreal

You wash your hands after sex. It’s all you can do.

All this sex, it’s love—it has to be because you’re willing to get out of your mind to do it. But not all this love is sex because you love her and loving her is love, not sex, and you don’t have to wash that away.

She puts a hand on your chest and asks why. She seems offended as if you think she is dirty and that you should wash her fluids and her scent off your skin the same way you wash dirt. You start to leave and she doesn’t try to stop you but she’s hurt.

You wash your hands and think in numbers because your world is nothing but systems. There are at least five million germs on your fingertips—just fingertips alone, but it could easily be ten million, and throughout the day they’ll just keep multiplying if you don’t kill them now. Viruses and bacteria and fungi and parasites are everywhere. When you get angry your left eye gets this weird twitch—it’s not a parasite, you know you don’t have a parasite. But you still can’t stop from wondering if there is a worm eating your brain. Germs can transfer from skin to skin, from mouth to mouth, from her to you until you are completely infected. And loving her would be fine if love wasn’t just another word for exchanging microbes and being okay with it. But love or no love, sex or no sex, at the end of the day, you always end up at the sink.

You wash your hands again and run through the list of STDs that you know she doesn’t have but could. HIV, HPV, HSV, all the V’s—all the acronyms, real and fake—you’ve made a hand-washing game out of them. You can’t stop scrubbing until you’ve gone through the list completely at least three times (but four doesn’t hurt).

You almost rip your skin apart trying to wash away the things that can never be washed away. How much time has passed since you first started healing? Years, but it feels like more because all the fantasies of finally being okay and all the progress you made so far comes crashing down with one more rinse. And just when you thought that it was finally over here you are again, washing your hands the same way you did when you were seventeen. 

One more time. Two more times to make sure you didn’t imagine the first time. Thirty seconds—no, sixty. What’s one more minute out of bed? It’s not like you could hurt her more than you already have. Since you still have soap between your fingers you might as well do it again, do it for longer. You’re tempted to go back and call her in just to have a witness, to make sure this happened. You almost do.

But you go back to bed and fall in beside her. How many times have you lived this same routine? It was always bad but it hurts more now that you love her. You’re tired and you bet she is too and probably more than you. She must have this idea about you. That you don’t love her as much as you say, that you must be cheating on her with some other woman. Why else would you be so quick to clean up? She must think the worst of you. You don’t blame her. You can’t even kiss her—what else is she going to think? But you wash your hands after sex because it’s all you can do. And for now, it’s okay that she thinks all this stuff about you—that’s fine. You’d rather she imagine someone like that than see who you really are.

Where’d you even get this from, huh? This isn’t some genetic disease that intertwines itself with your DNA at conception. You didn’t pick this up because you saw it on TV when you were little and like the monsters you never grow out of, kept it tucked away beneath your bed. This isn’t some stupid trend you held onto after high school to be different or anything. And you’re not going to die from this. Get it through your head that you’re not going to die from this! 

This thing that you have, it’s only real to you. To everyone else, it’s just some stupid disorder. You’re tired of people saying that you’re sick. You’re not fucking sick. You’re normal and you’re not going to die from this. So why are you letting it kill you?

You say you’re sorry.

How many sorrys is that? 

You just had to go wash your hands really quick but you’re here now. 

She asks if you’re afraid of her.

Afraid of her? No, of course not. 

She asks if there is someone else.

And no, there isn’t.

Then why don't you want her?

You do, it’s just… You had a bad day. 

How many bad days is that?

Can you guys not talk about this right now? 

She gets dressed. She has to go. She will be spending the night at her own house. This sleepover thing you guys have going on is done. She can’t keep loving someone who lies to her.

You tell her to wait. You want to be with her but your mind… You can’t stop thinking. You want to say something, but it’s not the right thing to say. So you tell her you’re sorry again.

How many sorrys is that? 

When she leaves, you wash your hands. And then your clothes. And then your sheets. And then your hands again. And again. And again. 

Then later, you call her. She doesn’t answer. You force yourself not to get angry because you don’t want a parasite to eat your brain and you don’t want to wash away another good thing. 

You leave a voicemail: You’re sorry about earlier. You love her, you want to be with her, but… Can you guys talk? It’s not her, it’s you. 

If you tell her, everything changes. But maybe that’s what you need. Maybe that’s the cure. So talk. 

It’s your mind. 

It’s your hands.

“Call me back.”

Elizabeth Monreal is a young Mexican-American writer based in Las Vegas.