The Broken Rubber

If there is a conspiracy working to plunge me into a coerced submission of my rights for promiscuity and into early fatherhood, then I believe Durex is a part of it. There is either a grave degradation in quality or there is a higher power working against me.

And why the acrimonious swipe at Durex? It’s because I have two validate premise of resentment stemming from two product failures. When condoms were supposed to herald an age of promiscuity without immediate consequences and when condoms were meant to abolish the need for short-changing orgasms because of withdrawal, it failed me.

There aren’t many people who have torn a condom while fucking, and certainly there aren’t many who can successfully have it torn twice. And this was an actual breakage without deliberate tampering of it and I am starting to believe that perhaps, there IS some truth in the designer condom story after all.

This was entirely boggling to me, because in my repertoire of encounters with condoms, this has never happened and I have a lineage of women who can attest to this. I highly doubt I am a novice to this, or perhaps I have been spoilt silly by women who have taken this as their responsibility to slip it on, on behalf of me. Neither do I think there were hidden razor blades in the girl’s vagina, because she wasn’t Thai and last I checked, that concealment skill is an ascribed characteristic solely for Thais.

Ironically, it started with pillow talk that forced me to remember important texts from my secondary school biology lessons, largely bordering over the ‘safe period’ and had huge words like ‘ovulation’ and ‘menstruation cycle’, which being male allows me to be ignorant of it.

I said it wasn’t safe to cum in a girl even if she was having her period and I specifically remembered this because just a couple days ago, one of the girls corrected me that despite having their menses, there is still a margin for pregnancy. I don’t know if that is true, but she was vehemently certain on that and looked like she had an abortion cert to substantiate her claim, so I took her word for it.

The girl I was with thought that was, and I quote, ‘a super low possibility’ but chance was something I do not have the luxury of, not when it came with bothersome words like, ‘responsibility’, ‘abortion’ and ‘crying’.

The sex was the same, just that she (I shall call her Yua), like to be fucked hard. And I know this because, well maybe she said,

“Fuck me hard”

And that I did. If pain was her derivative pleasure orchestrated from Japanese AV, then pain was what I brought. If she wanted it hard, I complied, even against buckling knees and swelling balls. And that was it, carnal sex at it best without the pleasantries of kissing or sweet nothings. We were after all, working adults who knew the value of time and that romantic foreplay and love-making were best left to teenagers.

There aren’t many things that will mind fuck you during sex, other than finding out your chick has a dick, but discovering your condom has torn pretty much ranks up there. It kills an erection almost as effectively as being head-butted in the balls.

I didn’t realize it had torn until I looked down and saw an uncanny crease around my member as if I had slotted in an oversized Nigger’s condom onto a Japanese pickle. It was almost reminiscent of the Ivory condom debacle, except that I knew there was no way Yua had torn the condom.

Me: “Fuck, I think the condom is torn.”

She looked at me in disbelief, almost as if I had single handedly destroyed her faith in latex. Her eyes told everything. This was a special moment for us, a first of sorts if you might say. How could it have torn? Now, surely I couldn’t have been THAT rough. If there was that much friction, I'm pretty sure we would have started a fire and ‘abrasions’ would have been the word of the day.

Yua: “Are your condoms expired?”

And so, while one had failed, we kept the faith and attributed the anomaly to sheer misfortune and a singular product failure in the sea of mass successes. We weren’t about to lodge a formal complaint to the condom industry just yet, despite the massive interruption to our common utopia of a simultaneous orgasmic fervor.

So I slipped on a second one once the mood had returned and we were back to coveting under the sheets. Then 20mins and countless position changes later, that familiar crease greeted me again. Convinced that the condom could not have possibly torn again, I proceeded to invite her to inspect.

Me: “I think the condom tore again. Does this look like it’s torn?”

She veered closer, her face inches from the dick.

She: “Looks like it.”
Me: “What the fuck is wrong with the condoms today?”

Was this a sign? Was this a divine intervention? Was this my calling to evangelize for rubberless unsafe sex? Was I the man to crumble the condom industry?

The whole episode just re-affirmed the need to keep the lights on during sex. I am serious. There is a legitimate reason for this. Keeping the light on is a form of contraception, much like pills, condoms and anal sex. If there hadn’t been light, I would be naming my offspring by now and I might seriously have had to call him/her, Broken Rubber.