Before the scabies, we were like most normal couples are after they've been married for about seven years. We ate a lot of sushi, watched a lot of illegally downloaded movies, lay in bed without doing it and held each other unenthusiastically. There were things about him I found a bit strange. He got offended when I asked him why he had a picture of his ex-girlfriend on the fridge. He kept thousands of dollars of weed in his dresser and all his clean clothes on the floor. He enjoyed baby-related humor above all other types of humor. I didn't hold that against him. He was a cancer survivor, and an exceptional musician with a successful career or two under his belt.

And there were fun nights, like when we'd put ELO on the jukebox and proceed to make out in the bar while I fisted his balls and spoke in a fake French accent, which still never led to much in bed. The sex was sort of non-existent. The sleep, on the other hand, was mindblowing. He was perfect for me in this way. I began to think he might be my soul mate. His reproductive organs seemed to enjoy punk rock as much as mine. Especially the Dead Kennedys: "Too Drunk to Fuck." Despite this, the parasites took note, overlooking the absence of water and hell bent on destroying my pathetic sex life.

The scabies came off of my roommate. The scabies maybe came back with my roommate from his vacation in Florida, the U.S. capital of parasitic infestations (think Lou Pearlman, the Hogans, etc.) But seeing as an infestation can take a while to discover, most likely the scabies came from the guy he'd been fooling around with a month before.

Funny story about how they got to my bed: My roommate was a severe alcoholic. The type of guy who'd vomit in his own bed and get up and sleep in yours instead, because you're, say, sleeping at your boyfriend's house. I can see him under my covers, talking to my cat, petting her belly as she latches onto his arm and bucks the flesh into strips of raw bacon. Then he falls asleep, holding his wound, scratching his balls, his pits, his knees, because he is itchy. Why is he itchy? The itchy gets worse. The itchy won't go away. A week later he gets drunk and falls down the stairs, and when he wakes up he is still itchy. He goes to the doctor, comes home with a bottle of permethrin cream, and texts me to tell me to stay away from the house until he washes our bedding. Too late.

I broke the news to Steven with one of those STD e-cards: Dear Lover, You might have noticed how itchy you are lately. I'm sorry for giving you crabs/scabies. Love, Gwendolyn.

"Scabies is an STD?" Steven said.

The sex was sort of non-existent. The sleep, on the other hand, was mindblowing.

"Oh, come on. I sent that as a joke."

"I have a right to know if what's on my face came from your roommate's crotch."

"Well, probably not just his, sweetheart."

I'm so thankful I didn't take it to the face like he did. When it happens, when the itch comes, the only thing you can think about is strangling the person who gave it to you. Steven didn't strangle me, but I had to rub lotion all over his body, in every unholy cranny. Since we were both too scared to sleep at home amidst the infestation, we got wine and strawberries and chocolate and checked into a ritzy hotel in the Quarter. I thought it was kind of romantic, even tried to cuddle.

"Just don't touch me," he said, nudging me away and scratching his eye. "I can't right now."

We lay in bed like brother and sister, watching a Marvin Gaye documentary, separated by the valley of personal space. Around the time Marvin's father shot him, and our lotion had suffocated most of the parasites, I realized our relationship was dying as well. I felt bad for us, but worse for whoever had to sleep in the room next.

To prevent the reinfestation of scabies, you have to set fire to the unsanitary life you've been living. You have to burn that shit down. That's why after washing all the clothes on your floor, the sheets, comforter and pillows, the favorite shirt your ex-girlfriend gave you — which only reminds you that you took her picture off your fridge for the scabies girl, which only reminds you that maybe you shouldn't have broken up with her in the first place — you have to get rid of the source.

He didn't break up with me scabies-face to face. He did it over the phone. He had many reasons. His band was going on tour all summer. He wanted to go fishing. He was still itchy and it was my fault. I was laid up in my new apartment — had just eaten shit on my bike, my knee swollen like a botched breast implant — because that's how everyone should be for their breakup: wounded and in severe pain. I didn't really care though. I was glad it was over. Or, kind of over. Here's the real kicker. After treating scabies, the itching can last up to a month, causing great paranoia that it will never go away, like a girl you break up with who won't stop calling. Sorry, Steven. I'm not that girl. I never call again. I erase your number. I don't want to ruin your life, but I can't help it. This is the life of a social parasite.

Now show me some skin.  n°