In one sense, my memory is positively elephantine. I remember conversations I had when I was four years old: not dramatic, important ones, but mundane, forgettable ones. I remember what cigarettes my best friend smoked Sophomore year of High School, and which ones she switched to when we were Juniors. I remember the descant to a choral piece I learned in fourth grade, and all the words to mc chris’s Fett’s Vette.*
I can basically never find my keys. If they aren’t in one of my two I-will-not-lose-them-if-I-consciously-put-them-here-every-time places, one of which is my coat pocket, there’s a lot of frantic searching punctuated by screams of “DEAR GOD MY KEYS HAVE GONE FERAL!” in my future.
This is how I know that there’s more than one kind of memory, and I suck at at least one of them.
So if I’m packing stuff up for a day or two away from home, I’ll inevitably end up forgetting something. Sometimes it’s totally unimportant, like a DVD I promised to lend a friend who’s been super excited to see it and possibly even planning a party around it, and at other times it’s of vital, national security-level importance, like my moisturizer.
A couple months ago, I was visiting my boyfriend for the weekend, and the thing I forgot was my birth control pills (also my thyroid medication, which is less relevant to the story but is not much better an idea).
There are people in the world who’d just turn their cars around, trek back home, get the necessary medications, and return triumphant. Those are exactly the kind of people who forged this great nation and will eventually launch a manned trip to Mars. I’m more the kind of person that drives for an hour to her boyfriend’s house and then majestically proclaims, “I am feeling rather tired. Do you mind if I lie down?”
Once I’d realized my mess up I did feel like a tool, though. Laramy has mentioned several times how nice it is that we’ve gone condom-free with each other, and I didn’t love the idea of him having to use them just based on my defective brain’s fuck-up. That’s when I remembered those little magical sponges.
Back when Edwin and I were together, we had a ton of condoms break. They probably broke almost half the time; I still can’t quite figure out why. After trying several kinds, we just gave up and started looking for other options. Enter the sponge, a little foam disk filled with spermicide. You added water to get it frothy, shoved it up against your cervix, and could fuck all day!
I decided if I picked up some sponges at the pharmacy the forgotten pills would barely be missed! When Laramy and I went out on errands I asked him if we could swing by Walgreen’s. “Are you sure? We can just use condoms…” Laramy offered. “No,” I insisted, “We should get the sponges.” Condoms are great, but it’s hard to deny the fact that they kill some sensitivity. I was determined that Laramy wouldn’t be punished for my forgetfulness.
We found the sponges on the bottom shelf, below the rubbers. “They want fifteen dollars for three of them? That’s insane!” Laramy opined. I’d remembered what sponges cost, but I forgot to realize that he wouldn’t love the idea of me “wasting” my money just to keep him out of latex. Just then, a box of Encare spermicidal eggs right next to the sponges caught my eye, on sale for about half that much. Edwin and I had used those too, and they’d worked just as well, although they were less convenient because you had to use a new one every time and wait a few minutes after insertion before fucking could commence. “I’ll just buy these, okay? Eight bucks. No condoms. Awesome!” and waltzed to the front of the store to pay for them. I had saved the day! Albeit from my stupid memory. Still, I was a hero. Maybe I’d get America to Mars after all!
Later, as we were making dinner, I felt a hard cock press against my ass and a pair of hands on my tits. Moments later Laramy was inside me and I was halfway to coming. Mercy, do I love spontaneous sex.
It wasn’t until he declared “I’m gonna come” that it occurred to me that we’d planned to use backup protection and we kinda, well, hadn’t. “Wait! Wait! Come in my mouth!” I suggested enthusiastically. He enthusiastically complied. Later I learned that guys find this sort of thing hot anyway, in addition to being a practical, last-second measure. Score.
Upstairs, the Encare eggs sat unused in their little, slightly squished box, biding their time…
The next day it was sex o’clock again. We were thinking ahead a little better at this point. “Do you want me to put a condom on?” offered Laramy. “No,” I said, “I can just put in one of those insert thingies, if you don’t mind waiting ten minutes.” He did not. We found other things to do than intercourse for a bit, and then I looked at the clock and it was ten after sex! Oh yay!
He started fucking me. Then he started fucking me harder. Then a look of what I thought might be profound concentration came over his face. “Maybe my vagina just feels too amazing to contemplate, but he’s trying anyway,” I told myself, “Yes. That must be it. How ambitious!” Then he slowed down, paused. “This is really hurting!” he confessed.
Oh my God. My vagina feels too ouchy to contemplate!? An alternative interpretation that hadn’t yet occurred to me.
“Shit! Then stop!” I suggested. He pulled out and ran to the bathroom to wash his dick.
“It must be the spermicide in that stuff! I’m allergic to it or something!”** He called as I followed him. He was sitting in the bathtub,. scrubbing with soap. Truth be told, his cock wasn’t looking a comfortable shade of red. This is when I started apologizing, I think. I felt like a total douche. I’d insisted on the Encare thinking I was being helpful, when all along he hadn’t been quite sure about the plan and was too polite to say anything.***
Sometimes I honestly do not know how he puts up with me. But this is how incredible my boyfriend is: he wanted to keep going! “I’ll just slip on a condom,” he explained. That way he’d avoid the allergens in my pussy. After everything we’d been through to avoid them, the condoms were coming out anyway. Ah, well!
I can honestly say it was good for me. For Laramy, less so. “Condoms really aren’t that bad,” I concluded after my ninth orgasm.
“…I think some of that spermicide must’ve gotten lodged in my urethra…” he replied. Oh, so not that good for him after all. Oh.
“WHY DID YOU KEEP GOING?” I asked, appalled.
“A champion fucks through the pain.” Indeed.
Laramy says that the events of that weekend had nothing to do with his decision to finally schedule that vasectomy he’d been wanting for years. It’s likely just coincidence that a few weeks later he made the appointment at last.
(image source)
* Not to say that I can perform them all with the correct rhythm in the original tempo…
** Turns out lots of people are. Oops.
*** Never be polite to the detriment of your cocks, lads.
