The other day Crasstalk superstar commenter MonkeyBiz was informing us that he and his three roommates (yes, I count Leo) have opened their hot tub. You all congratulated him on his new, swinging jacuzzi-based lifestyle and while I too was happy for Mister Biz, I felt a deep sense of conflict.
I had something to get off my chest. I’ve kept the feelings bottled up inside me for so long that I’d forgotten the joys of a three-hour hot tub soak. I’m writing this today because my fellow survivors have stories to tell — stories about 6 to 10 days of mild discomfort, stories of cool dudes with shiny t-shirts and bangin’ ass chicks with Kanye glasses who have been relegated to the shadows of society for up to a week and a half. My friends, I’m writing this today because I am a Hot Tub Rash survivor and this is my story.
It all started about four years ago when a friend invited a group of us to her rich (and fortunately generous) aunt and uncle’s beach house on a private island in South Carolina. When we showed up Friday afternoon at the house, I could not help but immediately bask in its luscious new-money dopeness. For this was an epic manse of stucco perched right on the edge of the sea and festooned with Clemson football memorabilia. It was glorious, and yet I had no idea that all of us would be putting ourselves at risk of contracting one of America’s swinging-est communicable diseases (other than all STDs ever).
As soon as we walked out onto the deck, we fired up the grill and did shots of tequila and turned on the stereo. Then we peeled off the hot tub’s insulated cover like a wet, slightly mildewy plastic onion. Within minutes we had figured out how to activate the water heater and various jets that spray a fine stream of water straight at one’s nether regions like a stream of water straight to the crotch. Gazing upon this boiling stew of sensuality, life seemed perfect and devoid of the bacteria Pseudomonas aeruginosa.
We cranked up the boombox (playing strictly 90s trance and Sisqo, of course), put on our shades and jumped in. Then we soaked for hours like a sexy-ass bouillabaise of awesomeness.
It was an excellent weekend of drunken hijinks and sun-drenched hangovers but while driving home Sunday afternoon I felt something on my right man-nipple. It felt like someone had grabbed it and twisted — the old titty twister, if you will. By the time I got home that evening my right armpit felt the same way. Within hours, the internet had diagnosed me with the three words no jacuzzi enthusiast ever wants to hear: hot tub rash.
Over the next few days I heard from friends who reported similar symptoms: patches of itchy red spots on their skin. At first I was in denial. I refused to believe this could happen to me. Hadn’t I taken precautions? Hadn’t I checked the pH levels and added fresh chlorine? But in our haze of Patron shots, we did none of those things and practiced unsafe hot tubbing.
Eventually I embraced my new identity as an HTR+ person. I forged a community of fellow HTR+ Americans and formed a support group that met once that week for happy hour. It was a tumultuous seven and a half days of itching and avoiding public pools.
I’m writing this today because while the rash on my man-nipple went away within a few days, the emotional scars lasted a few hours longer. We still unfairly stigmatize society’s hottest people for their jacuzzi-based antics. We resent them for their precocious sexuality and deem them uncouth when they play that game where they drunkenly grab each other’s submerged dongs and ladybits. But HTR is no laughing matter and I wrote this essay to raise awareness of society’s last acceptable form of discrimination. I hope you’ll join in me stopping the spread of one of fun’s greatest killers.
Read the Centers For Disease Control’s Hot Tub Rash Fact Sheet for more information on how to prevent HTR.
Get educated. Check pH levels. Together we can defeat HTR.
