Dear Elite,
At 2:30 a.m. on Wednesday morning I woke up with a fairly intense pain in the center of my chest. The feeling was not one to which I’m unaccustomed; there is some sort of ligament there attaching at the sternum that has taken to popping; it’s a musculoskeletal phenomenon, not a cardiac emergency; but the intensity of it was ratcheted way up, and much to my consternation, the release of the pop would not come. I got up, arched my back attempting to force it, went to the bathroom, coughed; all I got was a minor pop that did not alleviate the pain. Back in bed, I tossed and turned, unable to ignore the feeling and fall back asleep. And then I started to worry. I do have a prolapsed valve. Could this be the major unlikely episode that the doctor had talked about? “You’ll know,” he’d said. Well I didn’t know, but the longer I rolled around in bed, the more the paranoia threatened to overtake me. Then the chills started. After a couple of waves emanating from my core in all directions through my extremities, I realized what was happening: I was sick. This epiphany did not quell the paranoia. In fact, it made it worse, so the rest of the night I rolled around shivering, clutching the blankets, and trying to convince myself that I wasn’t dying. At one point I finally mustered the strength to get up, go to the closet and put on a long-sleeved shirt, but by that time my chances of getting a decent amount of sleep were already ruined. When Danyelle got up out of bed to feed the kids between 6:30 and 7:00, I lamely offered that she might need to take Cartter to school, one of the few duties that consistently fall to me. She sighed in disgust, but I explained I couldn’t do it, and she begrudgingly relented, not yet knowing that I truly was ill.
Wednesday morning was punishing, mostly due to extreme fatigue, a brutal headache and the fever. I was actually glad when I saw the positive result on the at-home test. Finally, I got it. If I was going to feel like this, it might as well be fucking Covid. I texted Danyelle, canceled all my appointments and meetings, and emailed my doctor. “Is there anything I can do for this besides drink lots of water?” I asked. I was really expecting that she was going to tell me that I was basically fucked, that the medicine was only for old people, but she didn’t. To my surprise and guilty relief she wrote back that she was sending in a prescription for Paxlovid, and in a few hours, I was taking my first dose. Here’s what you need to know about Paxlovid: it is amazing; it destroys Covid; and it makes your mouth taste like vomit 24/7; seriously, it tastes exactly like I just finished puking at all times, but it is a small price to pay to not feel like I’m about to die. After a nap in the late afternoon, the chest pain was gone. The migraine was still there, but the sense of panic, the feeling of a demon virus coursing through my veins and trying to kill me, that was gone. After a full night’s sleep, all that was left was some congestion and the familiar, almost comforting fatigue that accompanies those first few sleep debt payments, and, of course, the taste of vomit. I have to wonder: if we have a drug that obliterates Covid this way, couldn’t we come up with some shit to beat down some of these other colds? You know, the ones caused by coronaviruses that the kids are always bringing home from school? I know, I know, it’s impossible, there are too many, they mutate, and blah blah blah. I say that’s poppycock. I believe in a higher science! Our scientists will deliver us from evil! For theirs is the Kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever Amen!
Anyway, by Thursday, in my blissful sleepy state, after finishing an elite blog post, I shuffled out onto the patio to take in some rays (They say vitamin D helps. That’s what my buddy Stratton said anyway, and he follows scientists on Facebook). So I’m out there on the patio, slumped in a dirty chair, intending to be alone with my thoughts when Danyelle decides to sashay out in a bikini and lay out on the bricks (sorry, no pics). So much for meditating. I went from reflecting on my life to remembering episodes of Fear Factor when Joe Rogan locked bikini-clad babes in plexi-glass paneled chambers and dumped cockroaches all over them, and if they got through that then he’d have them eat a giant, wet donkey dick and dump a bucket of cow semen over themselves, and then if they did all that they’d get all washed up and pretty, and Joe Rogan would spew a bunch of bills from a money gun all over them. I of course purged these misogynistic thoughts from my mind with a searing self-flagellation that left raised open wounds on my flesh, lest I fall prey to the temptation of subeliteness, but after mercilessly whipping myself, I was left with a question: can elites have sex when dealing with Covid? Naturally, I turned to the most trusted source for elite information: google, and of course, it did not disappoint. Below, you will find the most important and relevant discoveries I made through this research with my commentary in parentheses.
From the Mayo Clinic1
- There is currently no evidence that the COVID-19 virus is transmitted through semen or vaginal fluids . . . (sounds promising).
- It’s possible that you could get the COVID-19 virus from sexual activities that expose you to fecal matter (dangit).
- If you aren’t up to date with your COVID-19 vaccines, masturbation is a safe type of sexual activity during the COVID-19 pandemic (no good, because we all know elites don’t masturbate).
- Be sure to wash your hands and any sex toys used, both before and after masturbating. You might also consider engaging in sexual activity with partners via text, photos or videos, ideally using an encrypted platform to provide privacy protection (ok, so do clean my masturbation toys, and do have sex with my phone, just only in private).
- Avoid sexual behaviors that have a risk of fecal-oral transmission or that involve semen or urine (no elite salad?)
- Use soap or alcohol wipes to clean the area where you have sexual activity (alright, well the butt is clearly off limits, so I guess this means get some of those sticky finger napkins and wipe your wife’s vagina with them after sex).
From Scientific American2
- The virus has been detected in stool samples of patients with COVID-19, and more studies are needed to determine whether one might spread the virus during anal sex or such sexual activities as rimming (placing the mouth on the anus). (That last parenthetical was theirs, not mine, and the clarification is much appreciated, as is the publication’s slightly more permissive attitude towards sex acts involving feces.)
- Have a glass of wine together while checking a rapid test and wear a condom (sounds delightful).
- Sexual health is just as important as a functioning heart, mental health and all other aspects of physical health . . . In the midst of a global pandemic, anything that brings us such pleasure or joy is well worth a few precautions (so, my interpretation of this is mask up and get it on).
Well, elite, I hope you found that as illuminating as I did and that during any future bouts of uncertainty about safe Covid sex, you will immediately return to this post. If you’re strapped for time, try to remember to scroll down to the bottom for this quick summary of the above guidelines: when having Covid sex, wear face condoms, and try your best not to get any doo doo on each other. Also, clean off all your dirty sex toys, and try to masturbate on your phone as much as possible. Happy humping!
The Raging Elitist 