Wrap It Up, Wrap It In...

The worst part about being a single guy is the condom situation. Honestly, I don’t think women realize what a genuine pain in the balls being responsible is. OK, so maybe I don’t have to deal with strange objects being pushed inside of me…so far. Here’s hoping that that’s a trend that continues.

So, let’s say I somehow convince a girl to go on two dates with me before saying something combustible like, “Yeah, I can get you a list of people I’ve been with. Do you have a copy of the phone book?”

Number three is tonight and we’re supposed to “watch a movie.” Watching a movie is the greatest line in the history of dating. I have a friend who swears that he’s gone to watch films and had his pants off before the FBI copyright warning flashes across the screen. Here’s an imitation of every single girl who ever had a man over to her house to see a movie:

“Credits, opening scene, good looking actor, oh that’s a penis in my face.”

So I know it’s my job to be prepared. Not only is it good planning and common courtesy, it also prevents the thoughts that go through my head when the girl I’m with says, “Don’t worry, I have PLENTY of condoms.” Women who keep large quantities of contraceptives might not really be thinking about the image it presents to their dates.

“Wow…this girl has like 500 rubbers. What the fuck has she been doing? How many men did she have in here tonight?”

Now I try to be polite when I go buy condoms. But no matter what time of day, one of the following groups seems to have nothing better to do than hang out in the Family Planning sections:

1. A mom and her two sons, ages 10 and 7
2. A father and his unbelievably hot 15 year-old daughter
3. An elderly couple of ninety who immediately strike up a conversation about how I have a “kind and morally upstanding face.”
4. My high school guidance councilor
5. My mother’s closest friends.

Needless to say, all eyes become instantly locked on me the second I enter the isle and remain on me while I try to decide on a selection. I think I might as well just make a giant shirt that says, “I’M DEFILING SOMEONE’S DAUGHTER TONIGHT.”

Have you ever noticed that when you’re carrying a box of condoms, everyone unconsciously sizes up your package?

OK, so somehow I’ve managed to arrive at the point in the evening where a condom is needed. She’s hot. I’m hot. Everyone’s ready…and now I have to get up and grope through my pockets. I know a lot of people say something like, “Just take them out and put them on the bedside table before making out.”

I’m a superstitious cat, ok? I never want to do ANYTHING to jinx it. It’s like talking to your pitcher in a no-hitter.

“Naked girl on the bed. NAKED GIRL ON THE BED. GET THE FUCKING CONDOM.”

No matter how many pockets you have, they are always in the last one.

Keys, gum, wallet.

“Naked girl. Starting to look kind of bored. FUCK!”

Movies stubs, guitar picks, receipts, wallet again.

“OK, she’s sitting up now. Starting to get back into the movie. What the hell??? I didn’t even know I owned a blockbuster card. Maybe it’s in—HA success!”

So, she’s rapidly losing interest. The vibe is completely shot. The pressure on me is ever increasing, because now I have to manage with a hermetically sealed nightmare of a packaging design. By this point, my fingers are usually slick with various fluids, the lighting is poor, and I know that all that stands between me and sweet release is the shoddiest design this side of Michael Jackson’s nose.

Usually, I get a grip on the wrapper and promptly tear out nothing but the smallest corner imaginable. So then I have to use my teeth…and her fluids are mixing with the taste of latex and God knows what else they put in the lube. But through persistence, I manage to open enough of the side of the square to squeeze my prize through.

No one, in the history of safe sex, has ever looked attractive while putting a condom on himself. Maybe it’s because guys have no sense of flair and seduction. Maybe it’s because I can’t help but think of a sausage-stuffing operation. Either way, the scene is about as sexy as staving Ethiopians.

Over the course of my life, I’ve been told by a few women, “don’t worry. Just pull out.” This is the kind of thing that makes me REALLY nervous. How many other guys has she suggested this to? “Just for that” I think to myself, “I’m wrapping it up twice.”

So a good period of time has passed. A pleasant evening/morning/fortnight was had by all. She’s cuddling into my arms, and I’m lying in a pool of sweat desperately trying to regain equilibrium…and feeling in my legs. It’s moments like these where I feel like a werewolf regaining human form. There I am, slowly regaining consciousness in a scene of unimaginable horror, and all I can think is “Oh my God! WHAT HAVE I DONE???”

Of course, this moment of horror varies in intensity based on how drunk I was at the beginning of the evening.

Eventually, I’m once again forced to break off the moment and the embrace. Really, considering the extent to which condoms ruin the mood, it’s a wonder that anyone actually gets laid while wearing them. This time, I have to move because the shirk-wrapped Twinkie swinging between my legs isn’t filled with crème. For you ladies, imagine that you had to tear a band-aid off your vagina. Only the band-aid is full of weird fluid that’s sticky and gets stringy under water. And you’re completely covered in latex burn.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to just wrap my face in plastic and spare myself the trouble.