You can measure the quality of a guy by the proximity of which he brings up condoms. It’s a direct relationship: the sooner he mentions them, the better he is!
At the bottom of the barometer scale is this guy:
You’re both naked. You’ve been rolling around, kissing, whatever. It’s hot. You’re at that point where you’re getting worried about proximity of genitals on genitals, so you roll it out. “Hey, are we ready for a condom? Should I grab one for us from my trusty bedside stash?” (You’re always stocked, of course, because you enjoy some healthy slutting. It keeps things fun!)
This one’s a bad egg, though, and he’s going down the Wonka trash shoot: “I’m too big for a condom,” he says. Or, maybe: “I can’t feel anything with those things on.”
He’s a dick, so you don’t want his dick.
The middling man goes here:
You’re edging toward naked, or maybe you’re fully naked. You’re rolling around, rubbing closer. It’s getting hot in here. That moment comes again. Looks like there’s going to be some hetero-normative penetration in not too long, if you’re reading the signs right. You sort of pause, maybe, or slow down, and he notices your slight deceleration before you get the words out. “Should we get a condom?” he asks.
Winner! Super hot when the guy takes some responsibly and asks first!
And the stellar, gold-star, barometer busting man?
You’ve been talking all night. It’s total heart-to-heart. Heart-to-heart moves on to mouth-to-mouth and you decide to move things from the couch to the bedroom. You sit down on his bed, and the music goes on, the lights go off. He says, holding your hand, ready to start kissing you again, “Just so you know, I have condoms if we need them. No pressure though.” Swoon!
This guy’s a winner.
What do you think? What makes your barometer burst?
Monologues are independent stories. Opinions shared are the author’s own,
The first time I saw a condom I was nine years old and slightly too old to be playing pretend. This sounds wrong, but let me explain:
I was sitting in my friend’s parents’ 1992 Subaru station wagon and we were playing a game called “Hippie Road Trip” where we were two hippies driving across America. I’m not sure what this game entailed besides my friend sitting in the driver’s seat of the parked car and turning the wheel every so often to not crash into imaginary pedestrians and animals. While looking through the glove box for a map (we had gotten lost) I came across a box of condoms.
“There was something so thrilling about finding evidence of the adult world.”
I had heard about the legendary pieces of latex in class from the school nurse. She was a portly woman with red hair who had clearly been uncomfortable explaining “the birds and the bees” to a class of fourth graders. Her perspiration and rushed tone, however, had made the topic more exciting, more mysterious. And so it was no wonder then that finding a box of condoms to us was like discovering buried treasure.
“They’re my parents’,” explained my friend, who had christened herself ‘Sparkle’ whilst playing pretend. I too had taken a new name for my character, the most beautiful name I could think of, which at the time happened to be ‘Crystal’. Her parents were in fact real hippies and as a result Sparkle was somewhat of an expert on the subject of sex.
“Here– let me see those,” she said, extending her hand. She opened the box and grabbed a small, plastic square before tearing it open. It was long and cylindrical with a strange almost soft texture.
“Can I have one?” I asked excitedly.
It was not so often that I had such easy access to illicit objects. There was something so thrilling about finding evidence of the adult world. She handed me a small plastic square of my own. Pretty soon the entire box had been completely emptied and every one of the six condoms was unwrapped. It turned out that condoms could fit over your hands, your feet and even the stick shift of a 1992 Subaru station wagon.
Finally, tired of playing with them, we folded and stuffed all of the unwrapped condoms back into their box and into the glove compartment.
Sparkle readjusted her seat and went back to concentrating on driving. I stared out the window of the un-moving car, satisfied with our new found hippie secret treasure.
Monologues are independent stories. Opinions shared are the author’s own. Also, you should know that glove compartments are a terrible and risky place to store condoms. The heat from the car can breakdown the latex and render condoms useless. Do you remember your first encounter with condoms or dams?
The memory of this experience was triggered by a discussion I overheard about massage oils recently.
I went through a very brief phase in online hook-ups for sex. I wanted to experience it as I was a very late bloomer who hadn’t had much casual sex. I decided to read the profiles for a hot, young, firm, sexy guy for sex. Only sex. I was not concerned with anything else but his physical appearance as I searched for a casual hook up for the evening. Another reason I wanted a young man was for the almost guarantee that he would go the duration. I conducted a small interviewing process online and found one who appeared to meet my needs. We chatted, we talked on the telephone and we met at a café.
We hit it off and rushed back to his place. We got undressed and made out for a while. As he reached for the bottle of hot massage oil he asked if it would matter if he put some on his dick. I shrugged (not so sure what it would do) so we rubbed it on.
Later, while having what began as great sex, he jumped up screaming – “my dick is on fire!”- as he proceeded to rip the condom off and put his red hot dick under cold running water in the bathroom sink. Apparently all the friction with the condom and his skin heated up his dick until it felt like it was in flames.
It may have been an insightful idea to read the fine print on the hot oil massage bottle. Sex was otherwise getting heated without oil. What a waste of good sex and it looked like his recovery was going to take a while, so I moved on. The good condom news in this story is, had we not used one I would have experienced the same sort of fire crotch too!
Always read the instructions and warning labels on oils, lubricants and condoms. Never use oil-based products with latex or polyisoprene condoms. It can break down the material. Polyurethane condoms are compatible with oils. So are “lambskins” (but these do not protect against STIs).
Have condoms ever played a role in your relationship breakup? One Condom Monologuer reveals the mind changing powers a stolen box of 300 condoms can wield in unexpected ways, at least momentarily.
I wasn’t in love with my boyfriend anymore. I had been keeping it to myself for about a week and didn’t have the heart to tell him over the phone as we made plans for his upcoming visit. He was driving to stay with me in my cramped college dorm room in order to celebrate our much anticipated one year anniversary. The big to-do was less about commemorating the great times we’d shared over the past year and more a manner of awarding me credit for having survived dating this maniac for so long.
Boyfriend X wasn’t such a bad guy- just a very territorial one with impossible demands and little intention of letting me experience college life to its fullest (aka hanging up the phone to go make some friends for once!). The length of our relationship was chiefly indebted to our overpowering physical chemistry and how we spent about 90% of our time together naked. Our budding sex life obscured two people who were otherwise very confrontational and unhealthy together.
Our passionate escape from the reality of our situation was facilitated by my boyfriend’s job as a stock boy at Shaw’s supermarket.
In addition to great discounts on groceries, Boyfriend X’s employment gave him exclusive access to unguarded stock-room of condoms which he quickly made a habit of slyly stuffing into his coat pockets after punching out. After I successfully faked a weekend of anniversary merriment it finally came time to overcome the temptation of rampant sex-capades and the burden of guilt, and to simply end the strenuous relationship once and for all. Heart racing, I picked up the phone to call my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. We greeted each other as per usual and just as I was preparing to drop the bomb he announced,
“Guess what?! I just stole an economy pack of condoms from Shaw’s! There’s like 300 in there! Now what did you want to tell me?”
I’m not sure what I felt worse about: not being able to do this in person, dumping him so suddenly right before the holidays, or having our break up coincide perfectly with his biggest heist yet. Nothing reminds you more that you got dumped than an unopened box of 300 condoms.
Monologues are independent stories. Opinions expressed are the writer’s own.
I can’t imagine it’s easy being a French town at the best of times, without having the daily struggle and ridicule of being known as ‘Condom’. All the other towns must point and laugh, and let’s be fair, they have every reason to. I mean, naming a town ‘Condom’, it’s just not fair. Would you name your baby ‘Coil’? Or your new dog ‘The Pill’? Even as middle names, contraceptives rarely work. That said, ‘Sheath’ seems to be a fairly well accepted surname.
Anyway, despite the word ‘condom’ not strictly being part of the French language, the people of this town have accepted it does have an English meaning. They have built their own museum detailing the history of the Rubber Johnny. They ensure each and every shop has a regular supply of everyone’s favourite rubber things and even some of the road dividers have been gifted a rather humorous shape!
Good to see a town’s sense of humour breaking a very well established language barrier…
Monologues are independent stories. The opinions shared are the author’s own. You can read more by Duncan @ DuncWilson.co.uk
Condoms. It seems like we go out of our way to store them in some place both secret and safe: a sock drawer, their wallet, the bedside table. But when it comes to disposing of those little semen bags it seems like anything goes. Here is a list of fifteen things people do with condoms after the deed is done:
1) Flush ‘em.
2) Throw in the waste basket.
3) Throw in the waste basket under other strategically placed trash.
4) Toss out of a moving car on the highway.
5) Leave on the floor.
6) Leave in the bed.
7) Stuff in pants pockets and discard outside the house.
8) Fall asleep with it still on.
9) Wrap in tissues.
10) Mistakenly place inside tin foil containing someone’s weed.
11) Store in a cup.
12) Put back in the wrapper.
13) Bury outside in the dirt.
14) Put in a Clementine box.
15) Hide in a jewelry box.
1993 was a great year. Pearl Jam released Vs., a perfect rock record; Nirvana released In Utero, their best record; the Toronto Maple Leafs couldn’t get to the Cup Finals despite gut-wrenching performances by Doug Gilmour and Félix Potvin; and the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup for the last time so far, a miracle-working Patrick Roy taking a very average team to the highest honours almost all by himself against Wayne Gretzky’s Los Angeles Kings.
In what was probably June of that year, the decisive Cup Finals game between the Kings and our beloved Habs was at home. My family had season tickets, but I opted out of going and instead set my sights to La Ronde, the local Six Flags amusement park, with a bunch of friends and maybe catch a bit of the end of the riot afterwards; I didn’t end up with a free TV, but I lost my virginity to a 19 year-old chick I picked up at La Ronde, so all in all, I must say it was a decent night.
It was a time when I was slimmer, when I would wear two band t-shirts at once and tie a third one around my waist with the logo facing outwards toward those behind me; it looked pretty fucking cool to me, and I was the only one doing it – it was my style, easily identifiable.
It wasn’t rare for me to get hit on in those days, what with a tall athlete’s frame, long straight rocker hair and a shyness I hid behind feigned confidence. Often, I would leave with girls’ telephone numbers. That night, I left with the girl.
Normally, at almost 15 years of age, after a day of walking in the sun and light entertainment, I’d be ready to go to sleep by 1AM – but not that night. That night, in the basement where I often slept (I had an actual room on the second floor, but my little brother and parents also slept there, so I had the basement as additional living quarters where I could sometimes get more privacy, especially at night) it seemed I was going to get a go at it. She was older than me, at least 4 years, and she knew what she was doing. She even interrupted a make-out session to ask, specifically, ”do you know what you’re doing, have you done it before”?
”Yes”, I was quick to reply, ”of course”. It wasn’t really a lie, because I had lived that moment time and time again, millions of times, in my head. And already I knew the gizmo I carried around in my underpants through and through – I’d lived with it my whole life, after all. And I knew ladies’ equipment pretty well, too, having already toyed around that area enough in the couple of years previous to this night on an average of maybe once a week – just not actually been inside there with my machinery.
So the mouths went from the mouth to everywhere our hands had been previously, and came time for the fatal question – one that I’d previously had the answer wrong to, which had cost me an earlier deflowerization: ”do you have a condom?” This time: ”yes”! We had a winner.
So together we struggle to release the condom from its packaging, succeed, and together we put the fucker on.
I ejaculate right then and there.
I had tried condoms on before, even jerked off into them. Never had it had that impact on me. But this time, maybe it was the nerves, the sexual tension, the fact that she was so hot despite wearing way too much make up, the lack of experience on my part, but it happened. I came in the condom before even entering the comfort zone.
I tried getting away with it, too, and lucky for me I’m still pretty well hung even when getting flaccid, so we made do, having soft-cock sex. She did her best to pretend not having noticed, and we still went at it for a few hours.
Believe it or not, that was not the most embarrassing moment of the episode. No, that came the next morning, when we went upstairs for breakfast, with the parents at the dining table.
”So, Sébastian, are you going to introduce your friend?”
Her name was Katia, and I never saw her again. But I did see a few of her friends for a while, including a very short but very hot girl, my age, named Manon – a name usually reserved for people over twenty years older than she was. She was a blast – and she still has a cap of mine that I really loved, corduroy, all black, with an Esso insignia in front – sarcastic branding was all the rage then, and would be even more so the following year.
Monologues are independent stories. Read more of Sébastian Hell at Hell’s Rumblings