By Jen Swanson

Taking care to not smudge my heavy eyeliner, which has been smudged just enough to make it look like I didn’t smudge it on purpose, I fan myself with a flier about safe sex and swear to never again wear black in July.

The windowless lobby of the free clinic in Chelsea is artless except for posters about various STDs. A video loops on the overhead TV, first in English, then Spanish, introducing us to multi-racial youth who claim that negative or positive, they’re happy to know their HIV status.

I’ve been waiting with these other at-risks all morning, trying to get comfortable in an annoyingly upright plastic chair, because my latest boyfriend, my most significant other, just told me he was sleeping with men. I didn’t ask how long he’d been cheating or when he first knew he was gay. My first thought was my health; who knows what the recently discovered swinger had brought into our bed.

A large woman in scrubs steps out of her office, breaking the repetition for a moment, to say, “67A,” with disinterest. I look down at my number and sigh as a skinny man with tattoo sleeves scurries through her door.

Oh, and just one more thing. A tiny detail: My bisexual boyfriend isn’t real; I made him up to score free vaccines for an upcoming trip to Asia.

I feel bad about abusing the system, but as a freelance writer living in Manhattan, I really have no choice. When shared rooms on Craigslist start at $1,500, I barely have enough left over for a $3 slice of plain pizza, let alone a health insurance plan.

The two shots I need—Hepatitis A and B—together cost nearly $600. Cursing my life and financial status, I debated canceling the trip when a fellow traveler let me in on a secret: Go down to the free clinic in Chelsea and tell them you found out your boyfriend is bisexual and cheating. If they believe you, they’ll have to give you the vaccines for free, as you’re part of a high-risk sexual category.

The Chelsea clinic doesn’t give free shots to travelers; the fact that I’m traveling must indicate I can afford to pay them myself. Not only must I convince the doctor I’m at risk, I’ll need to make it clear I’m at continued risk. I review all the reasons I’ve chosen to stay with my lying cheat of a boyfriend as I wait for my number to be called.

I love him, I remind myself. I really do. I’m the only girl I know who didn’t move to New York to become an actress, and it’s hard for me to get inside this girl’s head. If my real boyfriend were cheating on me, he and all his possessions would be on the street corner in less than 20 minutes. I try to channel a dutiful girlfriend or a loyal housewife, which I’ve neither been in real life nor aspired to become. What would she look like, what would she wear? Do such girls even exist in Manhattan?

Nearly 47 million Americans are uninsured, and almost 25 percent of New York City residents don’t have coverage, so I’m not alone. Don’t get me wrong, I’d buy a policy if I could afford it, but at a monthly rate of $350 to $500 for me, a healthy female in her late twenties, I just can’t justify the cost. My friend Melanie, a fellow uninsured freelancer, says it best, making a hand-across-her-throat sort of gesture, “If you get hit by a bus, well, it’s all over anyways, right?”

Finally, my number is called. The nurse sizes me up but asks no questions, leaving me to wait again inside the doctor’s office amid towers of files that threaten to topple onto the floor. A round plastic clock, like the kind you had in elementary school, ticks loudly in the otherwise barren room. I would be terrified to wait here if I really thought I was at risk of something.

There’s only one doctor on staff today, which is part of the reason the wait is so long. I give my well-rehearsed story as he whisks into the room, hoping he doesn’t have much time to devote to my dilemma. “Bisexual,” I choke. “We’d dated for years and I’d never suspected. And I can’t even think of the last time we used a condom.”

Do people try to scam free shots often? I don’t want to overact and make him suspicious. “I really love him,” I say, leaning into the small table for dramatic effect, letting a single tear slide down my cheek and hopefully ruin my makeup. “I’m going to make this work.” Even though he’s not real, I feel the resentment building toward him. Love him, I remind myself. I love him. “Asshole,” I mutter, then wonder how I can anger a character I created. Doc nods. Maybe I’m more convincing than I think.

When Doc tells me he’s testing me for HIV, syphilis, chlamydia, gonorrhea and herpes, I know I’m not getting out of the clinic anytime soon. “What about hepatitis?” I ask, avoiding his eyes. “Could I be at risk for that?”

He looks at me and nods, perhaps realizing he’s left one test off the list, or the real reason I’m here. I spend the rest of the day as a pincushion, fielding safe sex talks and questions about my mythical boyfriend. “You do know that it only takes one time without a condom to get an STD, right?” says the clerk who processed my papers.

“You do know you should be able to share your safety concerns with your boyfriend,” says the nurse who gave me a blood test.

“You do know that even if your boyfriend wasn’t gay, you should still use protection,” says the doctor, as he hands me my test results and a handful of condoms.

With each talk, I look at the floor, cross my heart and promise to always practice safe sex. But inside, I’m just so relieved to be single. As I’ve found out today, even fake relationships are a lot of work.