Trojan Horses

A funny thing happens when you have a baby: You stop having sex. I know that's a hacky truism, but that's not where I'm going. The joke? You get married/have babies and you don't have sex anymore. And it's always the wife's fault: the implication being that women only have sex with you to get you to marry them, or give them babies. That is NOT my implication.

To be honest, since marriage, the ratio of sexual encounters to days alive has skyrocketed. It use to be like 3 times every 25 years. We're waaaaay past that now. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more. (My wife is never going to let me post this.) Post-marriage sex has by and large been great and frequent and I would never complain about any of it. And I'm not complaining now. The reason the sex stopped isn't because we're "too tired" and "the baby" blah blah blah. It's because babies do terrible things to women's organs.

Exactly two hours after our son was born, our midwife tells us, "Now you can't put anything in there for at least a month." I found her subtlety pretty amusing. You can't put "anything" in "there"? We'd just spent 10 hours talking about vaginas and staring at one together. 10 hours of to-the-point bluntness, "Now, you're going to feel something kind of cold. That's going to be my finger." But when it's time to talk about what brought us to the delivery room in the first place, everybody's a prude!

The point was clear though, we literally couldn't have sex. Doctor's orders. Okay, not literally. We could have. But it wouldn't have been a good idea. And it was an interesting six weeks.

Two things happened: My wife and I became teenagers. The hormones would just build and build and build until we couldn't take it anymore! And then inevitable disappointment. Wah wah wah. (Sad trombone, not baby crying.)

The second thing was that I began masturbating much more frequently. A day or two before my son was born, I was out with some friends remarking that I don't really masturbate anymore. Well, that apparently wasn't so much self-control and not being a degenerate as not having to. Once the well dried up (or perhaps more aptly, once the well needed stitches? [oh man, she's never going to let me publish this]), my fountain overfloweth.

And that was okay for a while, but we both (I think) had been looking forward to the day when this would end. Make-out sessions are a lot of fun when you're 15. They end with a wag of the finger, and a, "let's do something else." Later on, I go back to my house and engage in a furious auto-erotic session, imagining that 'something else' involved my penis.

Make-out sessions are ridiculous by the way. It's like two people baking a cake together, taking it out of the oven, and throwing it away. Later both parties go their separate ways and eat a tube of icing.

For six weeks after having a baby, you get to be 15 again. Icing and all. My wife's appointment with the midwife was circled on the calendar. The day of her appointment, I clicked refresh on my gmail account every 10 minutes, anticipating an update.

Finally, it arrived! "Lou. Buy condoms! Bow-chicka-wow-wow!" Elation! And yet... disappointment? (Sidenote: that really was the email she sent. I love my wife.)

Yes, disappointment. Condoms. I forgot about condoms. "Right," I thought. "Because we don't want two of these things right now." Condoms. It's been years since we've used condoms. It's been years since I've bought condoms. And really, more than the using of condoms bothers me, I detest the buying.

I realize that may seem strange given that I'm disclosing all of this information about my sex life to you. But this is somewhat anonymous. At no point during this exchange of me writing this and you reading it will I walk up to you and give you money so I can have sex with my wife. But that's what happens at Walgreens, isn't it?

"Hello. A fine day to you," I tip my hat. "Here's $15, I will be having sex with my wife tonight, thank you very much."

The cashier takes my money and gives me a receipt for the sex I'm going to have. It's weird.

Also, if you've read this, you've probably read other things I've put up here. And if you've read more than one thing and keep reading things, I have at least some understanding of the type of person you are. On some level, I know you. We're the same, you and I. On some level. And you know me.

The person working the register at Walgreens is a stranger. She's 17. Does she have sex? I don't know. I don't want to know. And she doesn't want to know that I have sex. Neither of us wants any part of each others' sex lives. But the cashier is involved in mine. She's the gatekeeper to my wife's vagina!

And I want to have sex and not have a baby. So condoms it is. I go to the Walgreens. I find the condoms. I look at them. And I giggle. It dawns on me that not only the cashier knows I'll be having sex, but anyone and everyone who is in the store does too. Because I'm not in and out of that aisle. It's been years since I've bought these things. I don't know what's out there. It's a major decision.

I feel no brand loyalty. I have to do some reading. You can't just buy a product you haven't bought in a decade without reading the description. What if I just breeze down the aisle, pick up the first pack and later discover that it explodes at the end or something? That might exist, I don't know. Or what if I grab a pack of smalls? Even if I am a small, I'm not going to buy smalls. It would be embarrassing.

(Interestingly, there are no smalls. There's just regular condoms and then big ones with ridiculous names: "MAGNUM"! "KYNG"! It makes me wonder if diaphragms come in regular and "SUPER TIGHT"! But something tells me women aren't as insecure and weird as men.)

So I camp out in the condom section to do my research. While reading about "Fire and Ice", it occurs to me that I am a ridiculous human being. Well, first it occurs to me that humanity is ridiculous for creating the equivalent of Bengay contraception. But then it occurs to me that I've been reading condom boxes for 10 minutes in a crowded store. I feel a little like a pervert, but I remain unphased. I am buying condoms for perfectly respectable reasons, and I will not be bullied by society to make an uniformed decision!

I put back the Fire and Ice, and my eyes catch the pack, "Ribbed, for her pleasure." "That seems like the gentleman's choice. I'll do that." But it's right next to "Sensations for Her." Both Trojan products, by the way. Interestingly, I am a Trojan man. Both condoms are ribbed and contoured specifically for a woman's pleasure. What's the difference? Now I've got to pick up both packs and read the back. Trojan, there's no discernible difference. What the fuck?

At this point, I'd like to point out that I am a great guy. Because there are condoms specifically for HIM! And I passed that shit right up. Didn't even cross my mind. Okay, it crossed my mind. But you can't do that, can you? I don't really understand how these products exist. What man, knowing full well that he's going to have a "good time," is going to enhance his own "good time" before thinking of raising the odds that the woman is going to have a "good time" at all?

I can't in good conscience get something for ME and bring it to a STRANGER, "Yes, I will be having sex tonight. And I'm going to have a GREAT time."

"I see you didn't go with ribbed? For her pleasure? They're the same price you know."

"Oh, I know. I just don't care if she has pleasure!"

What? No. You can't do that. And now I'm giggling again that I'm having all of these thoughts while people are walking past me to get their prescriptions filled, shooting me glances out of the corner of their eyes, "Hmmm... he's gonna have sex... grrr." I don't know why people are thinking that in my head, but they are. They're mad about my sex.

Her pleasure or extra ribbed? I get a pack of each, because "Let's test!" As I'm walking from the condom aisle to the checkout, a question pops into my head. Why "Trojan"? That doesn't seem right, does it? How is the biggest condom brand in the world "Trojan"? I'm not commenting on the product here. I'm sure it's a fine product (Editor's Note: The wife is not pregnant. Fine product.). I'm commenting on the name.

Trojan. What does "Trojan" bring to mind? If you said, "The most famous sneak attack of all times!" you'd be spot on! What the fuck Trojan brand?

"Trojan Brand Condoms! You'll never see it coming!" It's a wooden horse, and hours after it's delivered, while you're sleeping, hundreds of soldiers pop out and sack the city? I don't get it. Weird connotation.

Unless they're going for a parallel with the 300 story. Armies of millions can't get through a narrow passage because it's blocked by 300 Trojans? That's not what comes to mind though. Trojan Horse is what comes to mind. Pillaging and ravaging a vagina near you. Weird.

I just imagine a couple who had a fight about having children. The man really wants them, the woman doesn't. Tempers flare. Ugly things are said. Old scars and wounds are reopened by both sides. After hours of silent treatment, someone farts and breaks the ice. Both people giggle, and there's a little friendly banter.

The wife makes a wisecrack, "God bless you."

The husband, "I told you I liked your meatloaf."

One thing leads to another and they're on the verge of the makeup sex. "But wait... I really don't want kids John."

"Don't worry Deborah, I'll wear a Trojan." And with that, they're back at each other's throats.

"Nice try motherfucker. I read about that horse. Sure it seems like a nice present, but once you let it in, all Hell breaks loose. You can't trust a Trojan."

This thought wraps up as my palms begin sweating and I casually place the condoms on the counter in front of a 17 year old girl working evenings at Walgreens. I place the condoms as far away from her as possible, as though that will somehow make her not need to see what they are. But she does.

She sees them. She hides her own embarrassment by making this the fastest transaction I have ever partaken in. Within three seconds they're scanned and in a bag. No words are exchanged. No eye contact is exchanged either. She swipes the credit card. Gives me my receipt, "You have paid for your sex." And I leave. Phew.

Then I went home and promptly discussed all of my thoughts on condoms with my wife. "It's like a Trojan Horse I tell ya!" We laughed. Then we had sex. With our son in the room. Which is a story for next time, things I would have to drink to now that I have a child if I were playing "I've never."

"I've never had sex with a third person in the room." Lou takes a drink.