I couldn’t have been more than 19 years old when, as a happy-go-lucky UCLA student, I looked down at my penis and decided I was dying.

Cancer, I thought, noticing small red bumps at the tip of my penis. Since I wasn’t having sex with anyone — not for lack of trying, I might add — what else could they be? I was doomed before it was even legal for me to drink.

A quick trip to the university’s emergency room followed, where, under harsh lights, a female doctor held and studied my genitals, then, in front of a female nurse, broke out into laughter.

“My husband has those,” she told me. “They’re varicose veins in an uncommon place. Nothing to worry about. Go Bruins!”

It turns out, I had a lot to worry about… but not for reasons the doctor dismissed.

As a young, gay actor who moved to New York City right after college, in 1987, having red bumps on my penis wasn’t exactly the invitation to sex that I was hoping to find. Not every guy I slept with noticed, but the ones who did often thought they were a sign of AIDS, herpes or god knows what else. I’ve never forgotten the man who said, simply, that I was “a whore,” and, since he was in a relationship with another man, he couldn’t take any risks. Um, kettle…?

That said, jovially saying to guys, “relax, they’re just varicose veins,” didn’t work as well as my former doctor insinuated. Perhaps I should have had her write a note.

In reality, who could really blame these men for being suspicious? Guys were dropping dead from AIDS on a daily basis, and vigilance was everything. I spent a lot of time trying to have sex in the dark or simply praying that guys wouldn’t examine my tip too closely. Many a hard-on was deflated just worrying one of my hook-ups would suddenly scream out, “Dude, what’s wrong with your dick?!” One guy did just that.

Even in the midst of the AIDS pandemic, I slept with a lot of strangers (I always used protection for intercourse), and to them, I was just another dick — pun intended. I’m certain that, if the situation had been reversed, I’d have had a difficult time believing the varicose vein story, too.

During the periods when I had steady boyfriends, the situation diminished because they trusted me and knew I wouldn’t place them in harm’s way. (Although I’ve read reports to the contrary, I’ve never once had one of the blood vessels break, during sex or otherwise.)

However, even those men weren’t always polite about my “deformity.” One guy I dated for a long time told me that having oral sex with me was like eating ice cream with nuts — and he didn’t like nuts. Charmed!

I’ve spent a lot of my life single, though, and as I grew older in a new century, I learned that no matter what time of life you choose to be sex-positive, there will always be a target on your back from groups who find sex with multiple partners shameful.

I also found that as I got older, most complaints would come from men much younger than myself. Being a “Dilf” or a “Daddy” has been a sweet time of life for me, but the sexual scrutiny from millennials and Generation Z has become more intense. I’ve had guys show up at my door and get naked, then, after foreplay, examine my penis like I was having a medical exam. Some were polite when they walked out the door, some were not.

Since this rarely happens with men close to my age, I chalked it up to retro-fear of older men — an AIDS-era residue that meant those of us who were sexually active during that horrifying time were still physically scarred.

By 2022, I’d had enough. I was seeing a man 20 years younger than myself and having a great time, until the night he abruptly stopped oral sex and demanded to know why I had bumps on my penis. I told him they’d always been there and that he’d just never noticed, which he didn’t believe, and he said he never wanted to see or talk to me again. I’ve not spoken to him since.

I immediately made an appointment with my doctor, pulled down my pants in the office, and asked if there was anything that could be done about my grotesque abnormality.

After yet another bright-light examination, mixed in with small talk of his impending wedding and honeymoon, he told me that, contrary to what my initial doctor said, the bumps were not varicose veins, but more than likely angiokeratoma, benign blood vessels that form on the skin. His diagnosis was delivered in a tone so carefree I definitely wanted him to write a note to future lovers.

He gave me a referral to an excellent dermatologist in New York, Dr. Bradley Glodny, who, when he studied my penis — sometimes I think my flaccid package has gotten more attention than the stiff version — confirmed that I had genital angiokeratoma, and said that, for an affordable price, he could remove them via laser.

“Yes, please,” I said faster than he could turn on the equipment to fix my equipment.

When I told him that my dates were often repulsed by my groin area, he asked, flatly, “What kind of people do you go out with?”

Fair point.

I haven’t always been the best judge of character when hormones get in the way.

A week of healing went by, and, as promised, almost all of the bumps disappeared (some were too tiny to remove). My self-esteem and self-confidence jumped up 100%, and my sex life since then has become substantially more fulfilling. I had no idea that hearing Dr. Glodny say that one word could change everything.

In the bedroom, I’ve become, like, “Hey, feel free to examine my penis. Nice, isn’t it?” and “Sure, we can have sex in bright light. Sounds like fun!”

Since an internet search returned lopsided statistics on how many people have my condition, I asked Dr. Glodny for his thoughts.

“While I cannot give you an exact statistic, I believe that most men over the age of 30 have at least a few angiokeratomas in their genital area,” he said, adding that they become more prevalent as we age.

What I’m baffled by — and what shocks me upon reflection — is that I ignored seeking help for my condition for 40 years, and, just as insane, I took the opinion of one doctor without seeking a second opinion. Varicose veins run in my family, and I have them on my legs, so it did seem like a legit diagnosis. But doctors, lest we forget, are simply professionals with theories, and should always be questioned.

Part of me was embarrassed, too, to even discuss such a sensitive part of my anatomy with a stranger, let alone have them examine it. Clearly, I’ve grown up on that front. I hope that if you’re reading this and have any skin condition that scares or confuses you, you won’t be as stubborn as I was and seek help immediately.

I don’t regret having an active sex life — quite the opposite. But I should have been more dismissive of the men who disbelieved me when I told them they were safe. I accepted humiliation in the hopes that I could score some hot ass. (Remember the guy who called me a liar? I recently reached out to him so he could see the “new and improved” me. He never responded, and, frankly, I think I dodged a bullet.)

Like most guys I know, I want all of my body to be appreciated — the muscles, the hairy chest, the penis. We all have physical imperfections, wherever and whatever they may be. When we are humiliated on any level, it only increases the kind of body fascism that needs to be eradicated.

Laser removal for angiokeratoma doesn’t last forever, and I have them tweaked about once a year. Yeah, it hurts — a lot. Yes, insurance doesn’t cover it because it’s considered cosmetic. And, yes, I have to go off the market for a good week or two afterward. But at this point in my life, skipping out on the procedure and going back to hiding in the sexual shadows would be just plain nuts.

David Toussaint is a four-time book author, journalist, professional screenwriter and playwright, and actor. He lives in Manhattan with his pug, Deja.

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