I'm having sex as I write this.
Despite the fact that the last time I had any was so long ago I had almost forgotten what it all involved, all equipment reported for duty, was accounted for and things are going as expected.
For the first time in almost eight years I had to go buy condoms. I didn't think using Saran-wrap would be such a good idea. And boy, has the world of condoms ever changed. There seem to be condoms with a zillion more variations than the last time I bought them.
Ribbed, studded, glow in the dark, flavoured, shaped like animals, durable, with enhanced sensation or with some special liquid to numb your willy-wonka so you don't reach your event horizon in a few seconds. From the thin, to the ultra-duper for the overly deprived, capable of sustaining up to twenty litres before bursting like the hull of the German battleship Tirpitz after the Grand Slam made touchdown.
Jesus. I'm just trying to have sex.
Some claim more technological advancements than what the crew of the Apollo wore to go to the moon. You'd think I was buying an expensive piece of equipment and not what is, in essence, a little bag of latex you wrap around your manly power-tool.
It took me half an hour to eventually pick a box of plain condoms, without studs or any weirdness attached.
For a second I was tempted to grab the glow in the dark ones so I could pretend it was a light sabre, breathe heavily and say in my best Darth Vader voice: "Who is your father? I AM!"
But, on second thought, I declined to show off my geekyness right away. Besides, the girl in question was probably sitting at home wondering just where the hell I had gone to buy them and thinking that maybe Saran-wrap wasn't such a bad idea after all.
As always, I presented my box of condoms with a pride that spelled "I'm getting some, damn it!" to the giggly cashier, who blushed as if she's never had any. I, for one, don't mind making bunnies look chaste.
I suppose I shouldn't complain with such manna for the sexually starved sitting only feet away from my house, open twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. One time, while on a desperate quest for condoms in Quebec City, I discovered that pharmacies--and just about everything else in this strange part of Canada--closed for the entire weekend. It was a Friday night, I didn't speak a word of French, and not a condom in sight. You'd think in Quebec, province of the sexually liberated, they'd be growing in fields like weeds.
When I got home, before we went at it like good Catholics, I decided to take a moment and look at the instructions. It's quite amusing that they need to tell you how to go about it in such a polite and considerate way, when putting on a condom should be as hard as wearing socks. Maybe the idea is that if you need to be told, you're obviously not smart enough to reproduce, saving both you and the gene pool plenty of trouble.
Probably due to impatience--or perhaps raging hormones--I got assaulted and next thing I know we're going at it like howling monkeys on crack.
So here we are, having sex. I'm not feeling much. Oh sure, she is having a great time, judging by the level of noise being generated. It's to the point that I probably won't see or hear from the cat for the rest of the day, terrorized by the loud frenzy. But one thing is for sure, sex without condoms will spoil you, especially after you've had it for several years.
This of course brings a variety of thoughts to my head, some not even related to the activity at hand. For example, how long will it take me to regain 'appreciation' for condoms in order for me to actually, you know, enjoy sex?
I could go without a condom, but call me paranoid, I don't exactly know where she's been. And I'm not too keen on having spawn already before I even know her bra size and favourite colour.
I'm looking at her, but she's obviously oblivious of what I am thinking. I'll make a mental note to remind her to trim her nails next time. I can feel the red marks sprouting all over my back like a road map of downtown Constantinopolis.
Another thing that occurs to me, besides the fact that I need to redo the drywall on one of the sections of my wall and I have finally spotted the car's keys I have been looking for all day, is to wonder what kind of sick, twisted, kinky passions this woman has. I'm no purist myself, but I am somewhat scared as to what she might unleash on me. I've dated some women that make me look like a ninety-eight-year-old Tibetan monk.
I'm still going at it, and she seems to have quite the lung capacity. I'm not entirely sure if she's actually enjoying this, it sounds like she's in pain more than anything else.
"You okay?" I ask, being the loving, caring, sensitive, modern guy that people think I am.
It's actually kinda funny to see a person reach a climax. I don't mean this in an insulting manner, but when you're clearly aroused and got nothing going on for you, you're not entirely sure what to do other than observe the other person and be grateful you live in a detached home. It's also quite amusing to see how a person, when in bed, changes. So far, in my experience, you either get logs that sit there and do nothing, or you get the equivalent of a buzzsaw out of control. Particularly with these sharp nails of hers.
It's half an hour later, and it appears she's taken all she could possibly handle in one session--you can never really tell with women. Time to stop. She hmms and purrs and passes out, mumbling something incomprehensible.
My back feels as though it's been flayed by a rabid puma trying to whelp a pachyderm, and there's enough of my DNA under her fingernails to clone an entire army of me. Makes you wonder if that's what they meant by 'practice safe sex.'