My parents wanted me, their first-born son, to contract chicken pox. I was probably 12 or 15 years old. They knew a friend who had kids with chicken pox, and they invited themselves over to this friends’ house, bringing myself and my two sisters along to this contaminated zone. I can’t remember who the family was, it was too long ago. I do remember being told to hold their chicken pox’d baby and play with their chicken pox’d toddler. The toddler was like a little freckled Pippi Longstockings running around the yard. I chased half-assedly. Whenever I caught the kid, my parents would make me kiss the kid. I had to kiss the kid right on his chicken pox.
“It will be much worse if you get them when you’re older!” My parents assured me.
“What if I don’t get them at all?” I asked.
“You will. Just hug the baby.” They replied.
After an infectious romp that lasted some amount of time, we were back at home and I was expecting to break out in pimply bumps any day now. Days passed. Years could have passed, I can’t remember. I did get chicken pox eventually though. I was still in elementary school, which means it was sometime before Grade 7. I got to stay home as the bumps broke out all over my skin. They were itchy, though I remember that not itching them wasn’t as hard as people made it out to be.
“Do you have any chicken pox on your penis?” I remember my friends asking me as they stood in the porch of the house. I was swaddled in blankets on the couch.
“Ha ha, no.” I replied, eyes blank and unreadable. My parents shooed the friends away for fear they would contract what I had without their parents permission. They left on their bikes as I went to the bathroom to inspect my tiny penis. It had chicken pox on it. There were at least three. I itched them a little bit, just out of curiosity, then I left them alone. No one needed to know where I had the chicken pox. There were also some on my butt, and my balls.
I went back to school some amount of days later. The pox had left me, but the memory of having tiny dots on my penis lived on. Since my scratching self-control was so great, I was not marred with scars like some people I know. The chicken pox came and went, and it was mild. I suppose my parents were right, though I don’t know anyone who got the chicken pox at an older age. Maybe it’s because they’re all dead.