Posts tagged ‘Sexuality’
People joke that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. This would seem to imply that prostitution somehow qualifies as a “profession.” It’s a job. But it’s hardly a profession. The last time I checked no one issued a diploma in prostitution.
Most prostitution in the United States is illegal. It is legal in only twelve rural counties in Nevada. Some of those counties don’t even contain brothels. There are essentially three forms of prostitution: street prostitution, brothels, and escort services, otherwise known as call girls.
The overwhelming majority of prostitues are girls and women, although there are some men. Most of the men service other men, but a tiny percentage of male prostitutes service women. Prostitutes are generally paid by five factors: the venue they work in, their clients, and their race, youth, and level of physical attractiveness.
Women are paid more than men on average. Younger women are paid more on average, as they are seen as less of a risk for sexually transmitted disease. This could also be due to just a taste for younger flesh. White women command higher rates, and by default one could conclude that young, attractive white women make the most money from prostitution.
Street prostitution is the lowest rung of prostitution. It exists in every major US city in pocket neighborhoods. Typically, police run a sting in one neighborhood, and they scatter to two or three other areas until they’re raided there, and then go back once again to the point of origin, and the cycle continues ad nauseum.
A lot of prostitutes are forced into prostitution, so-called white slavery. Some are not forced but, rather, coerced. The average age for the beginning of a prostitute’s career is 12-14 for a girl and 11-13 for a boy. Staggering, huh?
Lots of times kids begin their careers on the streets as runaways. It’s not something they’ve chosen to do but instead it’s something they do on occasion to survive, to buy a hotel room for the night or some food to eat. Eventually, these kids end up doing it regularly, and it becomes a job for them. Given that they’ve run away from home so young, I think it’s safe to assume that most of them come from abusive homes where they were already beaten or expected to service a family member sexually.
It’s not uncommon in some suburban areas of the United States nowadays for girls to be recruited from middle class homes by pimps. Sometimes they’re enticed by the promise of good money and an escape from boredom. Who knows? Maybe they thrill to the danger involved. Sometimes these girls are coerced with threats of violence to their families. “I know where you live.”
A lot of people think that prostitution should be legalized. A lot of the people I’ve talked with about this are men. And I think they mean well. I really do. I even think that it’s possible that they don’t paint a sex worker with the same stigma that the rest of our society does.
There’s a great argument for it. Look at Amsterdam: Land of All Vices Legal. They’ve really cut down on some of the reasons people cite for their objections to prostitution: human trafficking, the exploitation of minors, the rampant spread of STDs, the threat of sexual abuse and battery to sex workers, the highway robbery of pimps and madams who steal a significant percentage if not all of the sex workers’ wages.
All these evils have been eliminated in Amsterdam, if we are to believe them, simply by legalizing prostitution. Who wouldn’t want to improve these people’s lives by simply legalizing and regulating and thereby legitimizing and taxing their “profession”? What narrow minded person would be opposed to such good?
I would. I would be that narrow minded person. I’ll tell you why. With very few exceptions, the women who are involved in sex work come into it by happenstance, by force, coercion, or exploitation. And then they feel trapped there because it is all they have ever known or because they don’t know how to do any better, or because they think the greater world will never forgive them the stigma associated with an arrest record for prostitution. And, largely, they are right. I think very few major American corporations would hire people of either sex who have a conviction for prostitution.
Some women fall into prostitution of their own accord. But they inevitably do it for the money. They do it because they can make $2,000 in an hour by having sex with a stranger when I make $3,000 in a month doing other work. I realize no one’s going to pay me $2,000 an hour to have sex with him, but that’s beside the point. These women don’t become prostitutes out of some sense of adding to the common good or a sense of self-satisfaction that they get out of sexually servicing men. I’d be very surprised to hear any woman say that, and if she did, then bully for her, and I would tell her that maybe she should remain a prostitute.
But I think it’s kind of funny that the women who glamorize prostitution for us, such as the Heidi Fleisses and the Sidney Biddle Barrows and the Xaveria Hollanders of this world, don’t derive their satisfaction from being sex workers. They would lead us to believe that it’s a victimless crime. Who doesn’t like sex? The woman gets paid handsomely. The Happy Hooker stereotype.
If these women were so happy as hookers, then why did they become madams? And after some of them got caught, then why did they become authors and reality TV stars? Why not just move to Amsterdam and continue to enjoy doing what they do so well? Good question.
And finally, the best argument for not legalizing prostitution. Well, there are two of them. The first is that there is no such thing as Whore Barbie. When they make Whore Barbie in the Streetwalker, Chicken Ranch, and Escort versions, then maybe we should consider legalizing it as a profession because that means that little girls will see it as being something to aspire to when they grow up.
And the other best argument would be if the men friends of mine who think prostitution should be legalized would really wish for their daughters, sisters, and mothers to be whores. Really. Would you be okay with that? You think she would be fulfilled and self actualized? When you really, really feel that way, and prostitution has a four year degree at the university and a pamphlet in the high school guidance counselor’s office, then maybe we should consider it.
I have a girlfriend who now reads this blog and hasn’t caught up with me in many years, and she, along with some of my old college buddies, will probably be most interested in this post. You see, I used to be a virgin. I know this makes me unique. All kidding aside, I don’t hold the record on holding my virginity, but I was twenty-nine when it was tugged from my grasp. Even in the circle of my friends, who tended to be more religious and conservative than the general public in such matters, this was a long time to remain a virgin.
It became something I was known for – a claim to fame, if you will. In college, I was usually referred to by my unofficial job titles of the Virgin Goddess of Audio Visual Equipment and later, the Virgin Goddess of Physical Reception. I actually delivered television sets and filmstrip projectors around campus and then was a receptionist for the campus physical plant. But everything sounds more glamorous when you put Virgin Goddess in front of it.
I’m sure there was a combination of factors that went into the very willful decision to finally lose the last vestige of my technical virginity. The magical age of twenty-nine was one of them. Turning thirty was like a nightmare for me. I realized with growing horror that I had done precisely nothing with my life. I was past the age where being a virgin is still considered cute.
I was past the age where any decent and suitable, marriage-worthy man would want the pressure associated with deflowering me. They didn’t think of it as a gift the way I did. It was more of a burden. Or a possible bout of blue balls that would stretch out for the months they would anticipate it would take me to be convinced to give it up. Better to ask out the other woman who would be likely to give it up on Date #3, as a good girl should. Being a somewhat pragmatic woman, I saw losing it as a way to increase my marriage prospects. Also, it couldn’t hurt my seemingly non-existent dating life.
There was the fear of becoming an old maid looming on the horizon. Some idiot whose thinking and statistics were both unsound had published a study that was frequently cited in the press. Its contention was that an unmarried woman over the age of thirty was more likely to be attacked by terrorists than to get married for the first time. If you are a woman of a certain age, I know you’ve heard of that study.
Twenty-nine also came with an abrupt change in my hormones. I suddenly had more of a problem with acne. I had whacko periods for a while there, every two weeks, then every five weeks, then back to normal, and two weeks later… I was just more interested in sex, more curious about it, more determined to see what the fuss was about and to have sex just for the experience of it. I got on the pill, and that helped with the acne and the periods but not much with the rest.
It felt like I was aroused all the time. This was probably as close as I will ever come to being a seventeen-year-old boy. There was a young French intern at work that I thought was really sexy. When he walked into a room I was able to smell my own arousal so acutely that I was just sure that other people could smell it, too. And I bathed daily, regularly. So, something was wrong with my body. It was telling me I had waited long enough. It was sending me a telegram that said, “I want to get laid STOP,” in morse code. I knew this because I was tapping it into my clitoris every night.
Once I made up my mind to go through with it, it was just a matter of finding the right guy. One of the married men I palled around with at work gave the good advice of, “You don’t want a choir boy.” Armed with my new plan of action (no choir boys, check), I went out on the town in the warehouse district with some friends and got trashed at Polly Esther’s. My best friend at the time was a young woman who had an older brother close to my age.
Adam, as he shall be forever renamed, was not a choir boy, although he struck me as a possibility while he was singing a Doors song into a microphone connected to a karaoke machine. He was a few inches taller than me and was already starting to lose his hair. He shaved his head. He was thin with a muscular build, yet not a bodybuilder type. And he had a pleasant face that spoke of hard living and substance abuse and a solid lack of higher education, marketable employment skills or future earnings potential. I saw that all in the lines on his face and the faint gray circles under his eyes that never went away. This guy was it!
I picked him because I wanted someone who knew what he was doing, and I picked him because I wanted someone who was not threatening in an emotional sense, someone I could trust not to be violent or abusive but with whom I would not develop any feelings that were consequential. And in this sense I made a good pick.
The first night I met him we were all over each other in the back seat of his sister’s car as she was driving me back to where I had left my car parallel parked on the street somewhere outside Artz Rib House. Since the sister was my best friend she ended up being my confidant through this process, and I’m sure that Adam and I kissing and groping in the back of her car is one of those moments that would have definitely qualified as TMI, but she said nothing and seemed to be delighted. Was she thinking that maybe we might fall in love and that that love would inspire him to want to be a better person on my behalf? He would give up drugs, find steady full time employment, stop obsessing about his crappy childhood and be happy for a change? Even I didn’t believe in that fairytale.
The second night we got together I picked him up at his house, and we went to dinner. I think he paid. I don’t remember, and it doesn’t really matter. At the time, Adam was living rent free on the couch of what I like to refer to as the Halloween House. It was owned by a very imaginative and macabre gay man. The man had once been an animator for the Disney studios. The whole house was decorated in Halloween theme, complete with a tombstone where the shrubbery would normally have been outside the front door. Adam was working part time at as a bouncer at a karaoke bar that his “landlord” frequented. His caricature is still framed on the wall of the bar for all the world to see. If I ever feel nostalgic I can go there and see the man with whom I lost my virginity, looking exactly as he did at that time. His features are just a tad more exaggerated than in real life.
After we had dinner I drove us out to Emma Long Park after dark where I sort of made him audition. After all, I did not want to lose it to someone with substandard equipment or someone who wasn’t clipped (it’s a preference or a prejudice that I’m entitled to have). He passed my test with flying colors, and I knew that the next time we got together would be it. My roommate was going out of town to visit family, and I would have the entire house in Oak Hill to myself. I picked him up. We got pizza and beer and that was that.
Okay. I’m not going to write about it in detail, but I will tell more than that. I think some things should just remain private, so if you’re reading to hear about foreplay or positions and orgasms, and whether or not I swallow, or if I like to make noise, and if I do whether it’s screaming or moaning, you can stop reading. If you know those things already, then you’ve had sex with me, and if you don’t, then it’s none of your business.
What I will say is that at one point in the evening I thought I would never lose it because my body would not cooperate. Adam was on top of me, hammering on the entrance to my vagina like a battering ram, and it would not yield. I thought I would cry in frustration. “Relax,” he said. “I am!” I cried out in defense. But if you know me very well, then you probably already know that I was not relaxed. I’m a pretty high-strung creature. Eventually, I did what I instinctively knew was necessary and flung my legs high up in the air in a deep V and we got penetration and then I wrapped my legs around his waist and bled profusely. Afterward, he got up and soaked a washcloth with warm water and then came back and cleaned me off. He could be considerate like that.
In fact, I bled every time we had sex for the first three times we got together, which was probably at least the first ten times I had sex. I began to think that I had the hymen that would not go away. It was stubbornly holding on to my cervix for dear life. “No,” it said, “I like it here.” I thought maybe there was something seriously wrong with me, and I would have to be taken to the hospital like the heroine in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar.
A guy friend of mine once asked me if it hurt. I have to admit it did hurt, but it hurt so good. It felt pretty much like I had imagined it would, and I liked it. I was hooked. It was my new drug of choice.
Adam and I did it on a fairly regular basis for several months, longer than most of my dating relationships. I had a brief moment of mourning for the hymen where I called my old campus minister and expressed some guilt, and he asked me if I could maybe turn this into something. Hmm. Let’s see. Adam’s pillow talk consisted of how he got the shit beaten out of him every day by his father when he was growing up, how he wished his father would apologize for beating the shit out of him, and how he would never forgive his father for beating the shit out of him. I knew his father, and Adam was only hurting himself. Adam’s father had long since forgiven himself for anything that had happened in his first marriage. There would be no apologies.
When it ended, he ended it. The sex was good, and I was hot, but he could not put up with my personality anymore. I thought that was rich. I had gotten a good education out of the whole affair. I think all of his former lovers had been the kind of women that bring Cosmo articles to bed with them. I was not sorry over the loss of a relationship that had never been. I was just sorry that if I ever wanted to get laid again I would have to find a suitable candidate. This was what I hated about it. I would have to break in a new lover.
A couple of footnotes about Adam, lest anyone think I was inconsiderate of him. Lest anyone think my unwillingness to consider a relationship with Adam was because I was being overly picky, stuck up, or uncharitable, I have a couple of choice Adam moments that popped up after we stopped sleeping together.
First, I moved into an apartment with Adam’s sister and her daughter. We hired movers, and she hired her brother to watch after her daughter. The girl was just two years old and in the process of toilet training. Adam had spent the day on the computer playing video games. When we got back to the house, the little girl had spent God only knows how many hours in a dirty diaper. I carried her upstairs and changed her diaper, having to painstakingly scoop out the shit from the folds of her tiny genitals. It felt like my penance for having had sex with THAT MAN.
A few weeks after we moved in together, Adam’s sister told me that Adam had met a woman mere days ago and fallen in love and that he was going to be moving in with this woman. She was a divorced kindergarten teacher with three young children. I told the sister that Adam had fallen in love, my ass. He saw an opportunity to move up from the couch at the Halloween House and had taken it. I would have loved to have been wrong about this, but as it turned out, I was right.
A couple months later, I got a call on my cell phone from the woman that Adam had moved in with. I had briefly met her once. I’m not sure how she got my phone number. She was in tears. She had given Adam her debit card and the keys to her car so that he could drop her off at her job and then drive her car back to their home and search for jobs on the internet while she was at work during the day.
One day she went to buy groceries for her young family and found that her bank account was overdrawn. Rather than using the internet to look for work, he had used it to look at porn all day. That was why she had no money to feed her children. She kicked him out and reported the credit card fraud to the police. The police told her something else. The police told her he was not only looking at porn but at child pornography. She was calling me to see if I knew where Adam was. In a cardboard box underneath an I-35 bridge? Ask me if I care.
There will be some people who will read this post and, no doubt, find me cold and heartless. I suppose you could see it like that. Before the revelation of the child pornography, I would have cared. I didn’t look down my nose at him for the child abuse or his employment history or his lack of education. I grew to feel contempt for him because of his inability to recognize that only he had the ability to change his life. I had no respect for him because he refused to see that as an adult he now controlled his own destiny. I had sex with someone I didn’t love and that I didn’t even like that much. It was what it was, and no love was lost on either side. It’s something men do every day just because they see a woman that they find attractive. And let’s face it, some of them sometimes don’t even have to find the woman attractive. Just there.
So, while the movie industry makes millions of dollars off of whole movies centered around the plot of the teenaged boy losing his virginity in what is usually not portrayed as anything other than planned, calculating and cunning…My losing my virginity at twenty-nine will not ever be made into a movie because it will seem like I planned it. I was calculating and cunning, and there was a disparity of power that is somewhat uncomfortable to watch. It was not uncomfortable to live it, and I do not regret it.
Some of you are no doubt wondering what happened with the stud from The Morning After (see There’s Got to Be a Morning After). The answer to that question is that he’s still around, just hanging out and remaining anonymous, and I have a certain duty to protect his identity. Otherwise there’d be a line around the block for his services. I’m certain he couldn’t handle all the attention my tiny blog would get him.
Seriously, I broke that cardinal rule of all rules that you aren’t supposed to have sex with your friends. According to “When Harry Met Sally,” it changes everything. According to the prevailing belief structure of the moment, it has a tendency to ruin everything. I am familiar with the concept of Friends with Benefits, having done the concept on a couple different occasions. To be honest, however, my first Friend with Benefits was a friend in name only, someone with whom I did not feel I could converse with on my level and someone for whom I, sadly, had little respect.
The second experience with Friends with Benefits was better from the standpoint of the quality of the conversation and the relationship, but being honest I realize that the level of affection in that relationship was hideously skewed. He was one of those rare animals that should be studied in cages at a zoo: a man who was incapable of having a sexual relationship with a woman without falling in love with her. I guess that makes me a heartless, calculating, opportunistic young woman who was only out for one thing.
For those of you that haven’t maybe talked with me in a while, what happened with The Stud was this. Neither of us wanted to be in a serious relationship. We were very good friends, something we had been worried about preserving both before and after IT happened. So, even though I offered The Stud the supposed Holy Grail of All Relationships – Sex Without Strings – he turned me down flat. I’m not certain whether it was to preserve his feelings or mine. Regardless, it was the right call. Having sex with someone can produce feelings, and it does change things. Maybe not everything. But enough. Now when I look at my friend I see someone with whom I’ve had sex. I see him in that context. What’s done cannot be undone.
Have things been awkward on occasion since then? I think that’s to be expected. Once, an unfortunate turn of phrase he made when I was suffering from pre-menstrual syndrome threatened to make me weepy during a phone conversation. I am very fortunate in that my friend makes the effort to communicate with me and clear the air whenever he thinks it needs to be done. With a few minor hiccups, we’ve been able to maintain the quality of our friendship and move on. Am I sorry IT happened? Would I take it back if I could? No, it was a very beautiful memory. It was, for me, a moving experience. The second time it happened it was the end of a perfect day. Even though I know that we are not compatible as a couple AND (what really pisses me off) there will be no more good nookie, I am not sorry it happened. I cannot tell a lie.
You might wonder what a sex name is. And if you do, then you can join my club, because when the concept was first mentioned to me, I was equally clueless. This is how the subject came up. I have a friend who is a great educator about a variety of subjects. She is the alpha female in the relationship, as, I believe, nearly all my good girlfriends are. I play second fiddle, or Tonto, if you will.
This girlfriend…we’ll call her Katina, because that is her sex name, and the name under which she has given her official permission to be written about in my blog. Katina sends out a weekly email. It’s like her version of a blog. She writes quite well, I might add, and has some legitimate criticisms of my blog; i.e. too long, too wordy, repetitive (did I mention that I’ve had sex recently?), strays from subject. But I digress.
Katina’s weekly email goes out mostly to the people that she considers to be her closest friends. One of these friends had an email address that contained the name Sheila. Now Katina and I know a couple of Sheilas, but neither one of these women were in Katina’s circle of friends, to my knowledge. And Katina doesn’t have any Australian girlfriends. So, I asked her who was the woman with the Sheila email address. She answered, “Oh, that’s [so and so’s] wife.” I know this woman and her husband, and I know that her name is not Sheila. So, I asked, “Why does she have the name Sheila in her email address?”
Katina answered, “Oh, that’s her sex name.”
“Her sex name?” I asked.
“Yes, her sex name. As in what she likes to be called when she’s doing freaky shit.”
“Wow. Really? Like what?”
“The kind of stuff you do to spice up your sex life after you’ve been in a relationship for a while. You know, wigs and handcuffs, stuff like that.”
“You know. Uh, uh, uh. Oh, Sheila.”
I admit to taking some poetic license with this exchange. I didn’t exactly copy and paste our chat dialogue and then email it to myself, but with the snippets of a spoken conversation on the same subject added in, that was the gist of it.
Later, I was speaking about this very topic with another, male friend of mine, over pizza and beer. This friend, a shy male guitar player (see About Love and Music), has given his permission to be henceforth written about in this blog, as Shy Guy. I was talking about how this would be a great subject for my blog. Shy Guy agreed.
Then Shy Guy had a brilliant idea. “You could use this to cover yourself if you ever cried out the wrong name in bed. Like, say you accidentally say the name of your ex-girlfriend during the act. You could cover it by saying, ‘Hey, baby. That’s your sex name!'” Of course, this plan can only work if the person you’re having sex with doesn’t know you very well and doesn’t know the name of previous partners of significance, in which case you probably wouldn’t be having freaky sex yet. Nobody wants their sex name to be the same as their partner’s ex. So, this theory has holes in it. We’re working on it.
Soon after our next to the last breakup I moved in with my last roommate, a woman I will refer to as The Train Wreck. Before we were going to move in together she insisted on meeting me for drinks at Baby A’s because she had something to tell me. By that time, Rat and I hadn’t been broken up for very long, and I think this was our second breakup. We maintained a friendship. Maybe you can guess what Train just had to tell me before I moved in with her, but I did not see this coming. She told me that she wanted me to know that during our last breakup, she and Rat had slept together.
Since we were broken up at the time, he was perfectly free to have sex with whomever he wanted, and since it was a one time thing I wondered why Train didn’t just keep this news to herself. Just why was a purging of her conscience necessary? And the truth is that it wasn’t. This woman wanted to hurt me. And she was successful on that score.
I did get upset. Besides the obvious, I got upset that when we had gotten back together after that breakup, I had questioned him, in the interest of my sexual health, about whether or not he had had sex with someone while we were broken up. He told me he hadn’t, and when I called him from my cell phone at Baby A’s to chew his ass out, he insisted that the only reason that he never mentioned it was because it would have upset me for no reason. Call me cynical, but I think the reason he failed to mention it was because he didn’t want to wear condoms again for the next six months. The truth is that if he had just been upfront with me in the first place I wouldn’t have been that upset. Would I have been a teensy bit jealous? Yeah. That’s normal. But I would have gotten over it.
And even after this fiasco/soap opera scene, Rat and I did get back together one last time. It didn’t last long. Maybe two months. And during that time, he got down on bended knee and asked me to marry him. There was no ring. I didn’t need or want one, but Rat insisted that I would have one. Even right after this happened, in my state of happiness at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with the Rat Bastard I loved, I told The Train Wreck that he would never marry me. I’m psychic like that.
The end came like this. The Rat Bastard was over at Train’s and my place for an evening meal. Afterward we were sitting in the courtyard together, enjoying the autumn weather at sunset. I was sipping on a glass of white wine. He said he had something to tell me. I wondered if it was along the lines of the time that he admitted to having told me some whopper lies when we first got together. Lies like the one about the non-existent older brother who died in Vietnam or the time he spent playing minor league baseball were what I was expecting.
What he had to tell me was that he would still marry me and that he loved me, but that he was pretty sure now that he was gay. Lately, he felt almost exclusively sexually attracted to men. He had to have sex with another man. He had to have the freedom to do that. So, if I would just look the other way, he promised he would never have sex with another woman. Only men.
In truth, this should not have shocked me. Our sex life had been lacking one thing for me recently: frequency. I had bitched about it and bitched about it. I could have done it every day. More often than not, he had an excuse for why he couldn’t. He was tired. The headache cliché for us was when he started getting these whopper headaches whenever he came. That dried us up for awhile, as did the stroke he thought he nearly had once while we were fucking.
If he was exclusively sexually attracted to men, I questioned him, then just how did he manage what must have been the chore of having sex with me? Did he have to close his eyes and pretend I was someone else? He admitted to something along those lines and then when I continued to dig for more information, he said, “Why are you torturing yourself?” It was a good point. I gotta wonder. After all, the issue was his. It wasn’t mine. My only crime in this scenario was being a woman, something that in and of itself makes me desirable to approximately 90% of the male population. But to me there was something particularly hurtful about the idea of him having to imagine someone else in order to perform. To this day, I’ve never had to imagine that I was having sex with anyone other than the person with whom I was actually having sex.
I told him to get out. So, he left. He came back five minutes later because he left his wallet inside the house. Even losing the love of your life becomes a comical moment. On this week’s episode of, “Here’s Lucy,” Lucy breaks up with her gay boyfriend after he asks her to look the other way while he has anonymous public restroom sex with strangers. I didn’t say a word to him. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I never did. I sipped my white wine and read my book. Then I slipped quietly back into the house and went to sleep. A week later he was sleeping with the same ex girlfriend whose garage he had once lived in.
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.