The Disappearing Condom

Ah... sheer bliss. I was engulfed by the heady feeling of a task well-accomplished. In a post-sex daze, I turned around, eyes half-shut, and looked fondly at his softening cock.

"Wait a second... where'd it go?"

"Where'd what go?"

"The condom. Where is it?"

"I dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know? Didn't you take it off?"

"I dunno... maybe it fell off."

We quickly scan the floor. Nothing. I drop to all fours, lift the bedskirt, and peer under there. Nothing but dust-bunnies and old, dog-eared skin mags. I run my hand lightly over the carpet, hoping to snag the sticky damn thing.

"I can't find it."

"Uh... now that you mention it, I don't think it was on when I pulled out."

"WHAT?!?"

"Jeez... calm down. It must still be inside you."

Don'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanic... I hyperventilate. In an instant, my mind reels on images of open sores and scary formations on unfortunate genitalia (thanks, pathology class!), a screaming newborn, hemmorhoids, leaky tits, living in a trailer dressed in sponge rollers and a dirty wife-beater, with a half-empty can of Pabst in my hand and a cigarette dangling from my lips. This shit isn't happening to me. We have to find it. I silently beg fate to spare me an internal spill of the condom's contents as I reach in to fish it out.

Snag. Fucker's slippery. I can feel it, but I can't hold on to it. Meanwhile, he's standing there, arms crossed, an amused expression on his face as he watches me become increasingly frustrated as my efforts prove futile.

"Gimme your hand."

"...huh?"

I lock eyes with him, grab his right hand, and snap his fingers into service. "Fetch."

And he does. Let me tell you, there's no worse post-coital feeling than an impromptu pelvic exam. I feel his fingers moving around inside me, but my body is too panicked to respond in the usual manner. I look down at his face. He's grinning. Well, at least somebody finds this shit amusing.

Having the same trouble gripping it that I did, he jokingly suggests employing the use of some kitchen tongs. Haha, motherfucker. "Fireplace tongs?" he proffers instead. Not funny.

I squirm nervously, anxious to have this now-unwelcome foreign body out of me, and freaking out about the consequences of a botched retrieval.

"You do yoga, right?" he asks.

"Yeah. Bikram. That's how I'm able to pull off those positions you like."

"Don't remind me... now's not the time. Let's see if we can attack it from another angle."

Leg Stretch? Nope. Downward-facing dog? Nada. Seated Angle? Not quite. WarriorII? No. Rabbit? Still nothing.

I'm fretting mightily by now.

Finally, I try Plow Pose. And it works like a charm. How, I do not know, but halle-motherfreakin'-lujah! He snags it, pulls it out, and wings the offending item at me in the most juvenile manner possible. And you know what? It makes me laugh. I'm ecstatic, but most of all, I'm relieved. Because, believe you me, the whole time the retrieval was taking place, I could not for the life of me come up with a single, solitary imaginary scenario that would have made a believably non-questionable excuse for the E.R. nurses.