Andes Hruby

Words: 1050
  

Dear Herpes Simplex II,

​

I didn’t know I could ever learn to love you, not at first. It took decades of self-destruction before I became your grateful host. You introduced yourself with a vengeance: burning, blistering, flagrantly grotesque—just as my life was getting beautifully messy.

At twenty-two, I was a magna cum laude Ivy League graduate, working as a receptionist at Calvin Klein’s couture men’s division. Soon, I was sleeping with Times Square billboard boys from top modeling agencies: divine on the outside, teeming with designer viruses on the inside.

As a former child model, I identified with New York nightlife, sipping dinner through straws in stilettos, name-dropping in whispers, and having cigarette breakfasts with cheap French cappuccinos from Au Bon Pain. Still, I clung to my Ivy League dream of becoming a novelist. My first big break came when I pitched a deconstructed, Jack Kerouac-inspired press release for the runway—and it hit. Suddenly, my words were walking Fashion Week, carried by elite editors and celebrities alike. What should have been a climax—a springboard for my career—was instead your cue to appear: blistering between my legs, hijacking my immune system and any lingering illusion of invincibility.

I dragged my humiliated, volcanic vulva to one of the three gynecologists covered by my pitiful HMO. Of the three, the only one who could see me quickly had an encyclopedic, orthodox Jewish name. I walked into the waiting room, foaming with both anxiety and infection. I took a seat among a cooing gaggle of pregnant Hasidic women, shrinking into my starched collar like a leaking helium balloon.

I remember thinking: I’ve had men between my legs with abs sharp enough to slice citrus—Greek statues, literal Calvin Klein gods with their underwear—and now this man of faith had to help me survive the wreckage. He was kind, clinical, and didn’t flinch. Unable to meet his eyes, I stared at his long, curling peyos. He gave me thirty pills that cost half my rent—and the beginning of reverence.
 

In the beginning, I was too ashamed to tell or touch anyone. So, naturally, I became a master of fellatio. Give me a banana, a carrot, a cucumber, or a pickle, and I could bring the table next to us in a restaurant to orgasm. Performance became protection. I didn’t need commitment—I needed distance. I didn’t crave intimacy—I craved plausible deniability.

Ultimately, I started divining from other assistants—fierce, funny women with runway-level cheekbones and CVS-level dating disasters. They mocked the models with a confidence I didn’t yet have, casually admitting we’d all been sipping from the same poisoned chalice. Our demi-gods had been sharing more than hair gel, agents, and studio apartments.

Many of us had been quietly inducted into a clandestine club beyond the velvet rope—with a VIP section blistered, bleeding, crusted... and carrying cards no one could see. Not in our wallets, but in our flesh—stamped into our episomes.
The moment I could share my shame with other women, something shifted. You, my beloved Herpes, became my honest mirror.

You spoke up when I felt run-down. When my diet was horrible. When my emotions were in chaos. When I was giving myself away at clearance-rack prices of self-worth. You weren’t just a virus—you were a messenger. A therapist with teeth. A body-bound Bodhisattva. A spiritual smackdown in lesion form.

I came to understand you weren’t a punishment—you were a perimeter. A wise little monster whispering: Stop. Rest. Reflect. Recalibrate. You weren’t a flaw; you were a filter. If I couldn’t say the word “herpes” over dinner, then the man didn’t deserve dessert. You became my emotional TSA. If he flinched at the word, he wasn’t cleared for takeoff.

You taught me how to live in my body again. You trained me in discipline. I began to notice your rhythms and demands. You loathed caffeine, steak, crème brûlée, and anything fried in lust and served with ego. You flared under stress and hissed at sleep deprivation. You detested sugar, cocktails, and self-flagellation. You were my wellness dominatrix.
You responded beautifully to care. You quieted when I ate salmon, flaxseed, and chia and withdrew when I filled my plate with cruciferous greens and magnesium-rich spores. You liked yogurt, eggs, quinoa, apples, and garlic. You relaxed when I meditated and practically sighed with relief when I went to bed on time. You approved of acupuncture, reflexology, and pressing the sides of my heels as if tuning an ovary radio. You liked femoral massage before ovulation and whispered approval when I stretched in silence. Instead of shouting at the world to love me, you told me to love myself.

Statistically, you're everywhere. Two-thirds of the adult population carries some form of herpes. But socially, you’re unspeakable—a mark of moral failure. I’ve been to rehabilitation, and even needle users sneer at you, primarily because you can hide deep in a woman’s body. But once I acknowledged the shame amid other women, you became my shield.

You helped me distinguish between the worthy and the unworthy. You forced me to speak honestly about my body, my needs, my limits. You made me high-maintenance in the best possible way. I stopped treating my body like a consolation prize. I stopped saying yes when what I really meant was: I’m hailing a cab.

I made it to menopause and never passed you on. Not once did I share you with someone else. I endured honest, uncomfortable disclosures. I chose truth over validation. I burned. I learned. But when it came to you, I told the truth.

Now, when I remember those billboards—those towering men in tight white briefs hovering above Times Square—I don’t ache. I grin. I used to believe that proximity to the illusion would make me whole—that if I could be chosen by the fantasy, I’d be fixed.

You, Herpes Simplex II, were my unexpected spiritual guide, forcing me into my body and teaching me to protect it. You transformed me from a woman who performed pleasure into one who demanded wholeness—from myself and from others.

With affection and reverence,
Your luminous, unapologetic host