It's been months since you slept with that gypsy girl and has become nigh intolerable. For the first week or two you thought maybe you'd stumbled into a patch of poison ivy (you haven't been out of the city since '09 but you've always been pretty good at fooling yourself).
You've sought medical treatment, of course, but even though mounds of empty cream tubes have accumulated in your rarely-emptied bathroom waste bin and the "refills" number on your prescription bottle has gone from double digits to a dreadfully bold 0, the itch persists, and your doctors say they don't know if they can help you.
You should have called that gypsy girl.
The strangest part is there's no rash, no flakes, no scales or skin flakes. There's no physical evidence of your ailment at all save the ever-present, slowly but steadily deepening tracks your fingernails have dug into the skin of your arms, neck, and chest. The scratching on the rest of your body is less evident - you only scratch your junk in the shower.
You shouldn't have dodged her phone calls.
Well, not only in the shower. You once-frequent sexual conquests, gathered one by one, drunken night after drunken night, have dried to a drought. It's difficult to seal the deal when you can't seem to stop scratching down there once your pants come off. Your smooth lines and subtle lies are all for not when you're scratching your schlong so hard you break skin. Most women know that is not a sign of a healthy penis. In fact, all the ones you've tried to bed since the gypsy girl have known.
Kept awake by mind alight and skin aflame, you toss and turn in the night until the last of your arrogance is scratched away like so much irritated skin.
You break. You pick up the phone.
[hey]
[hey?]
[look, I need to say something]
[who is this?]
[it's Chris, we met at O'Toole's a few months back]
[ok...what do you want?]
[look, I realize now I didn't do right by you. I haven't been doing right by a lot of girls. You shared yourself with me, you gave me that gift, and I treated you like dirt. I just want to say I'm sorry.]
[that's it?]
[yeah]
[hmm]
[what is it?]
[it's just...I don't quite remember who you are]
[...]
[oh wait! You the itchy guy or the guy I covered in feathers?]
[itchy]
[okay, your curse should be lifted. Be good or ill turn you into a frog]
You feel instant relief. Exhausted you fall into a deep slumber. You dream of the man in the chicken suit outside the Chicken Shack, though you're not sure why.