If you’re having sex, you should also be having regular STI tests. In this context, “regular” constitutes every three months. Though I have a confession to make: I went for my last STI test in January, so I’m a little late this time around.

I’m writing this the night before I go for my next STI test. If I’m being honest, I’m really scared.

There is a lot of stigma around STIs. But talking about it is the only way we can challenge that stigma. Many excellent writers have shared posts reassuring you that visits to a sexual health clinic aren’t that scary. Amy Norton (Big Fling contributor) wrote an excellent piece on what to expect when you go for an STI test.

I’m going to try a different tactic in convincing you that STI tests are important, by sharing my fears. In telling you this, I want to show that even a sex-positive ethical slut finds going for an STI test hard. Becoming comfortable with it is journey that I’m on. I hope sharing this will prove it’s never too late to start talking about your needs and managing your sexual health.

STI testing isn’t easy but we should absolutely go anyway.

Image via The Gender Spectrum Collection

We need to acknowledge the mental hurdles that society sets up to stop us from getting tested. Like the shame surrounding taking control of our sexual health, especially for women. In a heteronormative society, we hear sex should only happen within a committed monogamous relationship. While the health-care providers at STI clinics don’t slut-shame people who visit them, it can often feel like something taboo – as does any admission that we have sex in a sex-negative society.

As a queer, polyamorous self-identified slut, the questions asked to ensure that I get the care I need are sometimes hard. Whoever asks me these questions generally assume that bisexuality isn’t a thing, let alone that genders outside of “male” and “female” exist. They tend to assume that I’m having sex with just one partner, or if I’m sleeping with multiple people then they’ll all be of the same gender. I have sex with folks of all genders and sexualities, and I think it’s important to say this when I’m asked.

I get STI tests even though I don’t have PIV sex.

Before the procedure, I also have to explain that while I’m sexually active, I’m not having PIV (that’s penis-in-vagina) sex due to my vaginismus, defined as the involuntary contraction of muscles around the opening of the vagina. The tight muscle contraction makes sexual intercourse or any sexual activity that involves penetration painful or – in my case – impossible. When I tell sexual health providers this, there’s usually a moment of surprise that someone who isn’t having penetrative sex gets STI tests.

This is because I know that while oral and hand sex has a lower rate of STI transmission than PIV sex (which in turn has a lower rate of transmission than anal sex) I’m still engaging in sex that could give me an STI. Especially when I’m having sex with multiple partners who in turn have sex with multiple partners. *Polyamorous slut jazz hands!*

After navigating these societal hurdles of talking about the sex I’m having, there’s the bit I’m most scared about.  I don’t like the shame, assumptions or  questions about my sex life that feel like probing even though they’re professional. But I also love the chance to spread a little sex positivity. I am comfortable correcting people who aren’t used to ensuring their language is inclusive of bisexual, non-binary, or polyamorous folks. I’m less comfortable with the next part.

The bit that really freaks me out is the vaginal swab.

I have vaginismus: I’ve never even used tampons and putting anything in my vagina is incredibly painful. However, the effective way for someone with a vulva to be tested for STIs is a vaginal swab. If you couldn’t tell from the name, this involves putting something inside my vagina.

For folks with a penis, the standard method for an STI test is a urine sample, and possibly a urethral swab. For folks engaging in receptive anal sex or oral sex, you should also ask for an anal swab and one from the back of your throat respectively. To test for blood-borne diseases like HIV, Syphilis and Hepatitis, you’ll also need to give a blood sample.

Vaginal, anal and throat swabs should be uncomfortable at most, but not painful. A urethral swab can be painful, but for folks with penises who want to use that as a reason to avoid going for an STI test? As a woman with vaginismus, I’m here to tell you that you can’t use fear of that pain to not get tested.

While you can self-administer vaginal and anal swabs during an STI test, I can’t. I physically cannot push a swab into my vagina. The health-care providers administering my tests have always been happy to help me with this. Though they tend to express surprise that I need their help. Take it from me, folks, hearing, “Wow, you look like you’re really in pain!” while you lie back with your legs spread and gritting your teeth so you don’t cry out isn’t fun.

It’s important to know your STI status, for your own safety and that of your partners.

Going to a sexual health clinic isn’t easy – it can feel shameful, with assumptions that erase your identity, and parts of the procedure can be painful. We still need to do it, though. We live in a sex-negative society, but things will only change if we start talking openly about sex and refusing to let shame stop us from taking care of our sexual health. And that starts with little steps, like going to get an STI test.

Even if that isn’t easy.