Her beautiful green eyes looked at me as if to say, “Tell me it isn't so.”

I hesitated and, in doing so, I realized that I'd given her the answer. She'd come to the ER complaining of genital blisters and sores. Sure enough, they were there.

“Oh, God, I've got herpes!” she wailed. “I should kill that SOB!”

I wondered to whom she was referring. Who, I wondered, could have done such a thing? To use a beautiful young woman as an object, as a mere receptacle for sperm. Surely he must have known that he had herpes. Why wouldn't he have told her?

I knew the answer, of course. He did not tell her because he was selfish, and he obviously thought that a few minutes of his pleasure was more important than inflicting upon her a lifetime of pain. Hedonistic calculus at its worst.

“You know him, too.”

Perplexed, I answered, “I do?”

“Yes, you do. Everyone does.”

When she told me his name, I was stunned. Yes, I'd heard his name before. I'd also seen him on television and the covers of magazines.

“You're certain he is the one?”

“He has to be. He's the only man I've ever slept with—and after this, probably the last.”

I explained the treatment options, but there was not much to say. We can suppress the disease, but there is no cure. Not exactly cause for celebration.

“Are you going to tell him?” I inquired.

“No, I'm not going to tell him—I'm going to tell his wife!”

Nancy, the nurse who had assisted me with the pelvic examination, chimed in, “Good for you! You should sue him, too!”

“I can't,” she replied. “If I do that, everyone in the world will know I have herpes. I'd be on the cover of those supermarket tabloids. My parents would be so ashamed. Heck, I'm ashamed. I can't believe what I've done, sleeping with such a jerk. I must be a terrible judge of character.”

He is a jerk, alright, but I'd known that for a long time. As they say, history repeats itself.

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