There’s Got to Be A Morning After
I had sex. And by that I mean that I had sex recently, not that I’ve had sex in my lifetime. I had sex for the first time in a really long time. It happened about a month ago. And then again another week or so later. Not just two times but two incidents. Just to clarify. And it had been so long since that sort of thing had happened to me that there was something surreal about the whole experience, both times. It unfolded like a dream, and I don’t think I can blame that entirely on the drugs. Unless the prescriptions I’m on for being a walking genetic time bomb can cause one to hallucinate.
I had sex. Did I mention that I had sex? I think I may have typed something about it, but I feel the need to repeat it in order to solidify the concept. I had sex. I had great sex. Knock the cobwebs out of my hoo-ha, send the bats flying out of my love cave, first time in a long time, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah sex. I feel like I should write, seal, stamp and mail the guy a Thank You note. That’s how good it was.
Obviously, this event was unplanned, and as it would happen, my partner had not had sex in a while, either. The most obvious evidence that this event was unplanned was the quality of the underwear I was not wearing as I was having sex. I am so not the planned seductress. When the time came for the actual big moment, I felt the need to disclose that I am not on hormonal birth control (see reference above about walking genetic time bomb status if you were wondering why), or, indeed, any birth control at all. So, there we are in the heat of the moment, in the middle of this lovely, cloudy, warm erotic dream, on the cusp of doing it (Please, God, now!) when we discover that neither one of us actually owns a condom. This is bad.
So, we did what most people usually do in situations like this, unless they decide to scrap having sex altogether, or, rather, he did what most couples in this situation do. And at some point during our evening, which was multi-eventful, if you catch my drift, it occurred to me that there was always Plan B, or the Morning After Pill. This was something I would have purchased anyway, being the sort of person who is generally a responsible person, all evidence to the contrary thus far not withstanding. Not only do I not want to get pregnant, I cannot get pregnant on any of the medicines I take (see again, reference to being a walking genetic time bomb, from both paragraphs one and three above). I would most likely deliver THE THING THAT LOOKS LIKE A HORRIBLE MUTATION OF THE LAWS OF NATURE. Do you remember V: The Miniseries? Enough said.
So, the next morning, having thought of this pharmaceutical solution to our dilemma, I encouraged my partner to enjoy himself fully. He did not, which I am truly sorry for, but I understand why he didn’t. He may not have even heard me mention my fabulous idea or he may not have wanted to have to trust the next eighteen years of his life on my ability to buy and swallow two tiny pills within the next 72 hours. Don’t blame him. I don’t want to raise the lizard baby from V, either.
Buy the pills and swallow them I did. The next day, not even a full twenty-four hours later, I was at my neighborhood Walgreens, walking to the counter to whisper, shamefacedly, that I needed that Plan B thing. The girl behind the counter must have been used to this, because she smiled in a reassuring manner and asked to see my identification to prove that I am at least eighteen years of age. I find this comforting. I might be a walking genetic time bomb but still look young enough to be too young to decide whether or not I want to become a mother. My actual age is old enough to be the mother of a daughter who can legally purchase her own Plan B.
You might ask, what does peace of mind cost you in this situation? For $50 I purchased my period for the month of May, 2009. That’s not counting hygiene products. While I was at the drug store I also purchased condoms just in case I should get lucky again in the future. Three of them cost me less than $5, and you can purchase them over the counter without having to show your ID. I’m really glad there is a Plan B, but I hope I never have to take it again.