"Honey, Why Does My Vagina Itch?" (An Introspective Essay on the Gas Station Condom)

This was going to be a penetrating post skewering Barack Obama for reneging on his promise not to accept public money, but I decided to talk about gas station condoms instead.

Lady Czecks, you might be unfamiliar with the gas station condom, because they are only readily available to men taking a piss or leaving a crap in a gas station bathroom. The gas station bathroom, as both genders surely already know, is the perfect culture dish from which romance is fostered. That’s why you can buy condoms in a machine bolted over the urinal.

Tempting.

You usually need three quarters to buy a gas station condom. Not seventy-five cents. The machine doesn’t take nickels and dimes. You insert the quarters, turn a knob, and ploop. You have protection.

Maybe. I’m not the Surgeon General, but I think you should heed the Angry Czeck’s Warning that gas station condoms are not likely to stop the flow of sperm. In fact, a better contraceptive might be wrapping a hairnet around your pecker. Or maybe just spraying it with Lysol.

I’m trying to imagine what a conversation might be like after a romantic encounter involving a gas station condom.

GIRL: I never felt anything like that before.
MAN: Yep.
GIRL: Where did you get that condom?
MAN: Gas station bathroom. Which reminds me; where the hell are my Tic-Tacs?
GIRL: Get the fuck out of my trailer! Don’t wake my kids.

There isn’t a good female equivalent to the gas station bathroom condom. Should one be invented? How about a gas station bathroom IUD? Listen, honey! It makes banjo sounds! How about a douche? It freshens the hooha, and it was purchased in a venue that’s cleaned once a week by a poorly paid teenager. Somehow, I don’t think women would go for this.

Close your eyes and imagine what a man in the market for a gas station bathroom condom might look like. He doesn’t have to be a big rig trucker. He can be a dude driving Pontiac Fiero.

Yeah! Cherry red Fiero with the high school graduation tassel hanging off the rear view. And what’s that playing on the stereo? Blaring super loud, windows down, so everyone can hear? You know it’s Feel Like Make’in Love! (Or maybe something from Air Supply.) He tucks his tank top into his jorts, and he runs the shopping list through his head: Red Bull, Pringles, Gas Station Condom. Fuck yeah!

Of course, most men are not quite as forthcoming about the purchase location of their condoms. They feel self-conscious enough that they’ve opted for the Ultra Slim Fit over the Magnum. Don’t worry, Ladies. Here are some tips that might come in handy.


Signs that Your Man is Using a Gas Station Condom

1. Hours after make’in love, your man’s penis continues to make Rice Krispie sounds
2. The condom has a zipper
3. The condom plays Final Countdown during the final thrusts
4. Your man smells like Slim Jims and gas
5. Condom comes with a tiny Polish joke book
6. Nine months later, you have another kid
7. Your vagina is itchy
8. Your vagina glows in the dark
9. Your man drives a red Fiero

If you experience any of these grim symptoms, then you want your man to come clean about what kind of protection he’s using. Remind him that you’d prefer to have your condoms purchased over the counter from a chuckling pharmacist.

If the condom looks like Big Ben,
it’s probably not a Trojan.

Promise him that you’ll try the Spanish Fly if he’ll start buying his condoms at Walgreens. Or at least treat him to some beef jerky and a deep-fried egg roll. If you have to, take a few pennies from the Take One, Leave One dish and have him spring for something ribbed for your pleasure.

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One response to “"Honey, Why Does My Vagina Itch?" (An Introspective Essay on the Gas Station Condom)

  1. very, very funny!

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