woman: safety

I don't like guys who talk like Prince Charming. The end is kinda lame. But I found this piece quite entertaining. Here is Jackson Gordon, a columnist of Taxi.

At the Bar

“Excuse me. I saw you across the bar and you were so beautiful I thought I would come and say hello.”
The goddess of the bar smiles deeply. “Thanks. But I have heard that line before.”
“Good – so you know what goes next.”
“You wanna know if I want a drink.” She goes on with the conversation dance.
“No, I wanted to tell you I have herpes.”
Then I jerk awake in a cold sweat from my nightmare.

The best advice I ever received was from one of Ali G’s guests – back before he went across the pond to the and HBO. He was having a round table discussion about sex with a televangelist, a “True Love Waits” virgin, somebody else, and a porn star. Ali G asked all of them to just say one word about sex – no more, no less. Everyone said what you expected them to say, the tele-priest said: “God”, the virgin said “patience”, the other person said “blah, blah, blah”, but it was the porn star that forever changed me.

She said: “Safety.”

I was taken back by that. Out of the all the vocabulary that a porn star has she said “safety”. Why? The credits rolled and the porn star never got to explain. But I thought about that for days. And I realized that if she contracts a disease, tears something, or has a shaving accident, her career is over. Forever. Like a professional footballer that tears his or hers Achilles heel.
And that’s when I realized “safety” was the last thing that rolled off my tongue when I rolled out of Lan Kwai Fong after too many drinks with my clammy palms gripping the angel of the night.

One alarming trend I find in is that women once inebriated throw their risk concerns out the window. And often you get into point of no return situations – where your manhood is put to the test.

Never has a woman asked me if I had a condom, I am always the one that brings it up. It usually goes like this, “We need protection, baby.” They would shake their heads violently and bumble out, “Why? I am safe. Aren’t you?”

Five seconds before penetration is the worst time to bring up your sexual history and if a man wanted to lie – it would be then. And a forced question like that – forces you as a guy to defend your own honor, “Of course I am.”

“Then let’s do this.” And five hours later when you are both spent, bodies sweaty in a heap wrapped in wet sheets, she is asleep on your chest and you are watching the sunrise through the towering IFC building - as a guy you find myself asking, “God, I hope she was telling the truth.”
So I had to come up with a foolproof way that with any situation – drunk or sober – I would not bypass “safety” standards.

So my savior came from Toys R Us just before Christmas. And I felt like a dirty old man – there I was a single guy perusing the toy aisles in being pushed about by kids of all shapes and sizes and their parents making mental notes about what they could or could not afford. And I was looking for a way for to prevent STDs.

And on a Ladies Night, it happened – and after an uncountable amount of Fuzzy Navels in Lan Kwai Fong – she asked me to take her to my place. She lived in and said it was too late to catch her bus. Okay, sure.

So we staggered hand in hand to my place and I took her to my rooftop. When the making out started to progress further with her hand up my shirt and down other places, I yanked away and disappeared downstairs.

When I returned, she looks bewildered especially when she realizes I am hiding something behind my back. “You have to ask permission.”
“What are you hiding?” I sat down and kissed her deeply but she kept her eyes open.
Then I pull out a small Teddy Bear between us. And she throws her hand over her mouth to hide her laughing. “My Teddy Bear is very protective.” I continue.
“Really? Is he?”
“She.”
“Oh I am sorry, she.”
“Ask her if you can have sex with me.”
She laughs even harder.
I act like the Teddy Bear wants to tell me something. I lean down to listen. “She says yes if you will kiss her tummy.”
“Her tummy?”
“Yeah, she is bi-curious.” That gets a bigger laugh. But she leans forward and gives it a big kiss. That’s when she hears the plastic crumble underneath and feels it against her lips. “What’s that?”
“Protection.” And I unzip the back of the Teddy Bear and slide out a condom.
Then the fun begins: having her help me put it on and then us getting it on. Sure, its corny. But who knew that fuzzy navels stop nightmares?