Page 78 of Flirtasaurus
“Are you writing a novel right this second? Because I’m not sure I want—”
“Ugh!” I slap him across the face.
“Whoa! What are you—”
“How dare you whip out a condom! Did youplanon having sex with me? What kind of girl do you think I am!”
“I don’t know… the kind that maybe doesn’t want to get pregnant?”
“Aw, you look so confused! Don’t worry,” I whisper, “we’re role-playing as if we’re in a romance novel. Did I slap you too hard? I’m sorry about that.”
“Slap was fine, but why are we role-playing though? And no offense, but this doesn’t seem like a very good romance novel you’re improvising—”
“Quick! Now pretend you’re pulling the condom out of your nightstand! Then watch me getreallymad.”
“Do you have a theater background or something I should know about?”
“Sort of. Summer camp shows,” I rush out. “Now, do it! Pretend you’re pulling a condom out of your drawer!”
“Oh, I’m pulling a condom out of my drawer. I bought these condoms at the store,” he sing-songs, busting out some spur-of-the-moment rhyme and some impressive pantomime.
“Damn! You’re good at this!” I can’t help it; I break character to deliver the compliment.
“Thanks!” He launches right back in. “It would be great if she’s a whore and lets me put it in her back door!” he says with glee.
“Alright now, that was just offensive.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“You do realize you took that too far, right?”
“Totally. Yeah. I can see that now.”
“Good. Because a woman has every right to do whatever the hell she wants with her back door. And whatever choice she makes on that front does not pave the way for any man, or woman for that matter, to call her derogatory names.”
“I know that! You’re just freaking me out with this stuff, and I’m not quite sure how you want me to participate. Can we stop this now? And just, I dunno, be ourselves?”
“Sure. Yeah, of course. I was just trying to prove an interesting point.”
“Were you? I’ve sort of lost track of any points being made.”
“Just that a guy can’t win when it comes to The Condom Moment.”
“Clearly,” he says on a half laugh half mutter.
“He either gets dogged for being presumptuous when he has it in his wallet on a date, yelled at for keeping them in his nightstand because that means he’s a player, or called an irresponsible bastard if he goes without one and they end up sharing a skeevy disease and/or a skeevy baby.”
“Babies aren’t skeevy.”
“Ever met one?”
He sighs and slips his pants back on.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s happening? I thought we were doing this!”
“I thought we were too, but I’m standing here in full Donald Duck mode while we do improvisation exercises, review your mother’s reading preferences, and discuss diseases. So, the moment has definitely…” He looks down. “Dissipated.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. My fault?”
