More on Condoms II
We've Come A Long Way... liberated and bravely marched into our neighborhood women's-health
We thought we were pretty darn smart, all right. In the '60s we became
collective, had our blood tested and our bodies examined, and marched
out armed with a pink carousel of little tablets and a new attitude.
We related to our sex partners, we discovered the joys of uninhibited
physical thrills, we took our pills regularly. In the '70s we were
sorry for it and went en masse to our gynecologists to be fitted for
diaphragms. We carried them everywhere, became geniuses of delicate
timing. We tried IUDs, flirted with cervical caps worn at jaunty
angles. We researched and discussed the issues with candor and aplomb;
ask any high-spirited modern girl and she'll tell you all about the
G-spot, male menopause, the Hite report, impotence, arousal, pregnancy,
the Kama Sutra, birth control.
Ready for the '80s? Hell, we thought we were ready for anything.
Anything but this. No woman, not even the most avid reader of sex
manuals or sophisticated connoisseur of amour, is prepared for the
experience of walking to the corner drugstore and asking the freckle-
faced adolescent behind the counter for a package of... condoms.
OLD FACT: Condoms aren't sexy. Neither are rubbers, sheaths,
prophylactics, Coney Island white fish, raincoats, skins, safes,
rubber booties, socks. The package says, "Sold for the prevention of
venereal disease." The boys say, Sold for the prevention of love.
Often compared to taking a bath with socks on, the condom ritual was the
classic bane to the romantic advances of bumbling '50s teens.
NEW FACT: Unless you can account for all the blood transfusions,
intravenous activities, and sexual escapades of your partner and your
partner's partners, you'd best get used to the idea, right now. "Say,"
you blink innocently, "shouldn't the boy be taking some responsibility
for this dangerous transaction?" Yes, of course. But I wouldn't count
on it. You know how they are. And here's a horrifying thought: not
only are you protecting yourself against your partner, you're protecting
your partner against *you*.
Buy Now, Lay Later
Don't even pretend for one minute that you're never going to do "it"
again. You will. So brace yourself for the new shopping experience of
the '80s.
First take: you enter a quiet, out-of-the-way drugstore that has a
display of walkers and bedpans in the window. Confident that no one you
know will ever spot you here, you stride over to the kindly old
pharmacist at the back of the store. "Excuse me," you venture a little
shakily. "Where are your rubbers?" You are gently guided to a Totes
display in Aisle Three. To save face, you buy a pair of men's size 11s
and ditch them in a corner trash can, determined to do better next time.
Second take: the next store you choose is alittle larger, and crowded. But you can't find
the condoms anywhere. There is a line at the cash register. You stand in it, patiently, rehearsing your lines. You arrive. "Excuse me," you politely whisper to the surly loud-mouthed Iranian behind the counter, "where are your prophylactics?" "Right here," he shouts. "What kind ya want?" "Uh, Trojans, I guess." "Lubricated or non-lubricated?"
he bellows. "Ya want ribs? We got the ribs kinds." By this time, the entire store is involved in the drama the crowd behind you is silently hanging on your every word, and you're sure that that's your third-grade teacher who just walked in. "Oh, uh, skip it, thanks. I'll just tell my little brother that he'll have to buy his own."
Don't be discouraged. Buying condoms is a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. And here's a heartening fact that I bet even *you* didn't know, Ms. Modern: marketing tests prove that women buy more condoms than men do, and have for years. That's why, ever since the late '70s, condom packages have featured air-brushed photos of couples
holding hands at sunset. They thought we'd like that. We don't, but it will have to do til
pictures of Mick Jagger, Mel Gibson or beautiful shoes come along.
hb
We've Come A Long Way... liberated and bravely marched into our neighborhood women's-health
We thought we were pretty darn smart, all right. In the '60s we became
collective, had our blood tested and our bodies examined, and marched
out armed with a pink carousel of little tablets and a new attitude.
We related to our sex partners, we discovered the joys of uninhibited
physical thrills, we took our pills regularly. In the '70s we were
sorry for it and went en masse to our gynecologists to be fitted for
diaphragms. We carried them everywhere, became geniuses of delicate
timing. We tried IUDs, flirted with cervical caps worn at jaunty
angles. We researched and discussed the issues with candor and aplomb;
ask any high-spirited modern girl and she'll tell you all about the
G-spot, male menopause, the Hite report, impotence, arousal, pregnancy,
the Kama Sutra, birth control.
Ready for the '80s? Hell, we thought we were ready for anything.
Anything but this. No woman, not even the most avid reader of sex
manuals or sophisticated connoisseur of amour, is prepared for the
experience of walking to the corner drugstore and asking the freckle-
faced adolescent behind the counter for a package of... condoms.
OLD FACT: Condoms aren't sexy. Neither are rubbers, sheaths,
prophylactics, Coney Island white fish, raincoats, skins, safes,
rubber booties, socks. The package says, "Sold for the prevention of
venereal disease." The boys say, Sold for the prevention of love.
Often compared to taking a bath with socks on, the condom ritual was the
classic bane to the romantic advances of bumbling '50s teens.
NEW FACT: Unless you can account for all the blood transfusions,
intravenous activities, and sexual escapades of your partner and your
partner's partners, you'd best get used to the idea, right now. "Say,"
you blink innocently, "shouldn't the boy be taking some responsibility
for this dangerous transaction?" Yes, of course. But I wouldn't count
on it. You know how they are. And here's a horrifying thought: not
only are you protecting yourself against your partner, you're protecting
your partner against *you*.
Buy Now, Lay Later
Don't even pretend for one minute that you're never going to do "it"
again. You will. So brace yourself for the new shopping experience of
the '80s.
First take: you enter a quiet, out-of-the-way drugstore that has a
display of walkers and bedpans in the window. Confident that no one you
know will ever spot you here, you stride over to the kindly old
pharmacist at the back of the store. "Excuse me," you venture a little
shakily. "Where are your rubbers?" You are gently guided to a Totes
display in Aisle Three. To save face, you buy a pair of men's size 11s
and ditch them in a corner trash can, determined to do better next time.
Second take: the next store you choose is alittle larger, and crowded. But you can't find
the condoms anywhere. There is a line at the cash register. You stand in it, patiently, rehearsing your lines. You arrive. "Excuse me," you politely whisper to the surly loud-mouthed Iranian behind the counter, "where are your prophylactics?" "Right here," he shouts. "What kind ya want?" "Uh, Trojans, I guess." "Lubricated or non-lubricated?"
he bellows. "Ya want ribs? We got the ribs kinds." By this time, the entire store is involved in the drama the crowd behind you is silently hanging on your every word, and you're sure that that's your third-grade teacher who just walked in. "Oh, uh, skip it, thanks. I'll just tell my little brother that he'll have to buy his own."
Don't be discouraged. Buying condoms is a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. And here's a heartening fact that I bet even *you* didn't know, Ms. Modern: marketing tests prove that women buy more condoms than men do, and have for years. That's why, ever since the late '70s, condom packages have featured air-brushed photos of couples
holding hands at sunset. They thought we'd like that. We don't, but it will have to do til
pictures of Mick Jagger, Mel Gibson or beautiful shoes come along.
hb