On Condoms

Dating can be rough, you have to worry about married men*, date rape (do they call it that these days? I’m getting old and am not keeping up with the terminology), and murder, successful or otherwise.  There are also general freaks and weirdos to watch out for.

Once you meet a nice person who buys you a cheap drink at a bar near your house (because they have roommates) you get to decide if you’re going to get some or not.  And for the sake my my post you purchase a one way ticket to Poundtown**.

So things are going swell, right? But because this isn’t someone you’ve known for long, and while you have been pretty open and honest with this semi-stranger standing sans-pants being a bit awkward about how to next proceed you need quick, effective protection from the gross nasty diseases that people carry around in/on their bits and, in most cases, something to aid in the prevention of genetic recombination.

There is one simple answer: condoms.

But if you’ve ever had sex with a man you know that some of them become withering little bitches at the mere mention of prophylactics. Whining or not you need to hold fast to your druthers, I have rebuttals for all the bullshit excuses, please find them below.

I don’t have any with me.

  • We can use one of mine, I’ve already poked the holes in it.
  • It’s ok, we can call my mom, she’ll bring us some.
  • I keep a stash of Nana’s skin for moments like this, it’s just like lamb skin.

I don’t like the way they feel.

  • Oh, you prefer the feel of my downstairs teeth better?
  • I know, when I wear them they make my dick feel numbish, the bigger ones seem to help. (This works best of you are a lady.
  • I’m allergic.
    • Fuck off! Me too. That’s why Jesus invented polyurethane.
      I’m ovulating.

    * Look you guys, I have a narrow perspective, I know, you know.

    ** If you click the link you will find that the town of Pound is south of Beaver, I cannot make this stuff up.

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