A Needlessly Embarrassing Purchase

I don’t know about you, but I was raised to believe that anything having to do with sex is shameful. And that is how I feel every two years when I endure the purchase of a box of one dozen condoms. That’s right, one box. You do the math.

I enter the store wishing I had the superpower of invisibility. I search for the sign and pray there is no one here with whom I am even remotely acquainted. Finally, there it is: “Family Planning.” I mosey up to the display all calm-like, but the sheer volume of options overwhelms me. Were there this many last time? I look for the familiar box. It’s not here. I assumed it would be the same color, but they’ve changed it on me. What was wrong with aqua blue?

I pick up a product of the same brand, but I don’t remember the description on the box at home. Are mine spermicidal? Lubricated? Who can remember? Heat rises around my ears. I should just get out of here and regroup. Try again another time.

But I’ve come too far now to turn back. I look at a sampling of choices. There are images of the product on the backs of the boxes. They look like plastic models of inter-ballistic missiles, which I find troubling somehow. One box says “Ultra Thin”, giving me pause. Already skeptical of their tensile strength, why would I want thinner? Does it really make a difference, pleasure-wise? I decide that the (possible) reward does not merit the risk. And they cost three dollars more, for less protection.

I’ve been standing here too long. There’s an elderly woman stooped over a pushcart. She’s a little older than my mother, but still.... I know she’s judging me.

I stroll away and wander through the aisles. Bags of peanut butter cups are on sale. Halloween is coming, so this is would make a safe, innocuous purchase. I’m reminded of the golden rule of condom shopping: Always buy a few other items, so as not to look desperate to have sex at two-thirty in the afternoon.

I return to the display ready to grab a box, any box. My eye is drawn to a surreal image: Luxury Condoms. I’m not kidding--$43.99 for one dozen condoms made of lambskin, one of the strongest membranes on earth. We hope. But four bucks a pop? There may be guys around who are that proud of their penises. I’m not one of them.

I snatch my selection and head for the checkout counter with the bag of Reese’s cups, a liter of Mountain Dew, and a copy of The Utne Reader. The cashier is a woman. It’s always a woman. As usual, I’ve calculated the total price of my purchase in my head, but it rings up too high by three dollars. I pause mid-swipe, scanning the screen. They’ve charged me the Ultra Thin price for a box of Regulars. Having seen the panic in my eyes, the cashier looks away. I tell myself to be rational, pay the money, and get the hell out of here. It’s not worth it.

Instead, I hear myself saying, “I’m pretty sure these condoms were marked at $12.59.”

“Well, that’s how the computer rang them up,” she says.

Now everyone knows why I’m here. I sneak a peripheral glance over my shoulder. Sixty people are lined up behind me, including my surrogate mother. I can hear their minds shouting, “This guy’s buying condoms! This guy, right here! He’s a little old for condoms, isn’t he? What’s he going to do with them? The old perv.” No. I am not a perv, just a normal man who doesn’t want to start a second family.

I say, “Let me check the price.” I grab the box and scurry away, avoiding the glares of my accusers. The cashier calls after me, “I’ll send someone back.” Sure enough, a young woman appears from nowhere. She’s wearing a headset and a lime green top. Her cleavage distracts me while she verifies the price. Vindicated, I endure a walk of mixed emotions back to the checkout counter. My head feels like it’s on fire. As I pass them, the people in waiting memorize every line and blemish on my face. They will never forget.

True Romance, Mailman Style

When people find out I’m a mailman, they sometimes ask if mail carriers really have affairs with their customers. As a rule, no, that’s a myth, but I did have a religious experience once with an enormous Scandinavian lady in a clown suit. Okay, that’s not quite true. In actuality, she was a Harlequin Great Dane named Millie (though I didn’t know her name at the time, as we were not properly introduced).

If you’re familiar with unexpected dog encounters, you know they usually happen suddenly, without warning. You never hear a dog say, “Psssst! Hey, Buddy. Over here. You might wanna gird your loins, Pal. I’m comin’ for ya.” It doesn’t work that way. It’s more likely a two-year-old child opens a screen door, and half a second later, fangs are in your thigh.

So, imagine yourself walking along with a mailbag over your shoulder. Maybe you’re subbing on a route you’ve never carried before. It’s a warm, sunny afternoon in June. You come to a beautiful mansion with a flower garden out front in full bloom. You stop to admire the craft that went into the building’s stonework. The garden is wonderful; its fragrance fills the air. Talk about smelling the roses. What an idyllic setting. Now, where is that mailbox?

Suddenly, a small pony comes galloping around the corner. You realize it’s not a pony, but a Great Dane with a splotchy black and white coat. You take a breath to scream, but there’s no time. No time to flee, nowhere to go, and she’s coming right at you. You’re backing frantically through the begonias, dropping your mailbag, the one with the dog spray in it. She reaches you, and pins you to that beautiful stone wall you just had to stop and admire, and plants her muzzle firmly into the fly of your pants as you stand on tippy tippy tiptoes. Your arms are spread wide, palms glued to the stone. Her tail is not wagging—not a good sign. She turns her gaze upward and looks balefully into your eyes, posing the question, “What now, Mr. Intruder?”

What now? Here’s what now. Your central nervous system is kabloowie. You dare not make a sound, but your mind is screaming, “Mayday! Holy Crap! Mayday!” Even though you can retreat no further, your doomed scrotum is trying to crawl into your prostate gland, while your penis does its best impression of Tippy the Turtle. You are transformed into your former self, your four-year-old self calling for his Mommy. In your mind, you whisper, “Nice doggie. Nice doggie.” You’ve never heard yourself whimper before. Mr. Rogers appears in your mind’s eye, posing the $64,000 question: “Can you say ‘castration’?”

While the two of you are locked in this position, a couple in their late seventies pulls up in a Buick Regal. The husband brakes at the stop sign, and says, “Oh, look dear. What an interesting garden sculpture.”

His wife does a double take and says, “Why, yes. And so lifelike. We should get one.”

As you wait for the inevitable chomping of the groin, you recall a line written by C. S. Lewis: “The present moment is the point at which time touches eternity.” You understand now what he meant. This is an eternity crammed into very few seconds of real time. Real time? There is no time. You’re out of time. Only the grace of God can save you now. You hope against hope that someone has fed this dog today. Of course, you know very well that dogs don’t eat genitalia when they’re hungry. You’re not an idiot. But forgive yourself for not thinking rationally at this moment.

At last, the eternity ends—it took what, eight seconds?—when young Millie here restarts the clock by sniffing you twice then snorting into your crotch like a horse into a feed bag. This causes you to pee your pants a little. And you were doing so well. Thankfully, the smell of urine is enough to save you. It’s a miracle. It seems the very Bladder of God has descended to relieve you of your burden. Millie immediately withdraws her head and cocks it to one side, puzzled. You’ll swear she looks just like Scooby Doo. She turns away from you when a tiny elderly man comes inching onto the veranda like Tim Conway on The Carol Burnett Show, calling, “Millie, Millie get in here, you silly little thing.” Little thing. That’s not funny, old man. Or are you very slow and very blind? Millie lopes to the veranda and disappears into the house. After apologizing, Tim shuffles after her.

Thus ended my hellish, harlequin romance with Millie. True story. And the closest I have ever come to an affair with a customer.