Although the thought of wearing one of these gives me high anxiety, I have worn a few in my day, and am qualified to help ladies looking to gift-wrap a willy.
First, you need to know your objective. Yes, I know you want him to keep his skeevy diseases to himself. I have a firm grip on the obvious.
I’m referring to pleasure objectives. Do you want to enjoy this or should he? Because, if you’re concerned about his pleasure, all condoms suck—it’s simply a matter of how awful each type is. The most fun parts of getting it in, include knowing that it’s in (without asking). Condoms help about as much as if you ask Siri.
“Siri, has the Eagle landed?”
“Ooh, wrong landing pad?”
“Actually, it appears you’re friction-fucking the mattress. And, by the expression on your lover’s face, it appears this will be your last chance to dock before her station leaves your orbit.”
“Gee, thanks, Siri.”
Condoms really are horrible for men. It’s like swimming with a ski mask on. Driving with your elbows. Um, drinking coffee through a tall, thin cocktail straw. No? Bathing in sweatpants. Licking a paper towel. Look, it fucking sucks, so get the thinnest ones you can find. While you’re at it, also get some morning-after pills and tongs for when it breaks.
But, if you’re concerned about your pleasure, you have options. They have ones with speed bumps and nubs. If your man has been known to be a two-pump chump, get some really thick ones. He’ll last longer than that UTI you had last month. Perhaps, get him a girlie magazine too, in case his eyelids become droopy mid-coitus.
Oops, almost forgot. There is an exception to the rule that handing your man a condom will make him miserable. If, and only if, you are insisting upon the use thereof because you are about to grant him limited access to your dirtiest of places (no, not your condo in Los Angeles), then he’ll have that sucker unwrapped and strapped on his poo torpedo in two seconds flat. He may even doo-doo a happy-happy dance while rolling it down. Ignore that.
Now, the other question I am typically asked is, “Uncle Philsy, how many condoms should I buy?”
“Is zero an option?”
“Then it depends on how many times you expect to be penetrated before your next Rite Aid run.”
“Then buy one.”
“You can turn it inside-out and use it again.”
“Fine. Buy a dozen. It’s not like they spoil.”
“Lubricated or not?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“Good girl. Now, get crackin’. Oh, and please pick me up a peppermint patty while you’re in there.”
Another topic of discussion is how to dispose of the sheath. Some women are paranoid, and to those I say, “Once he gets off, push him off, pull it off, run into the bathroom, and flush it. Be kind, and return with a Wet-Nap.” Typically, however, condom disposal is the man’s duty. The smartest thing for him to do is remove it immediately, tie the end like you’re about to make balloon animals, place it in a zip-lock sandwich bag, put it in your jeans pocket, and remember it’s there so you can flush it with confidence.
As far as the condom wrapper is concerned, I always like to kick it under the bed. This is a “Man Code” thing designed to warn the next lover. I once found three hair ties, two cats, a watch, a softball bat, and six wrappers under my lover’s bed. They were magnums. I was saddened.
So, if you’re sitting in the CVS parking lot reading this, I encourage you to skip the condoms and buy chewing gum. Your man will appreciate it, and, with any luck, buy me a tall, frosty beverage.