Sextiquette: Why women should buy their own condoms

Ladies, get your butt to Boots.


It’s 2am on a Saturday morning and you have successfully navigated the sexual minefield of the Lizard, or had a romantic evening to commemorate your one-year anniversary, or you finally found Hugh Grant skulking about Ma Bells. However you’ve managed it, there is a boy in your bed.

Soon the lights will be off, the mood will be up, and your carefully chosen outfit will be strewn across the floor. And before you can even count through Cosmo magazine’s ten dirty tips of the month, a condom will be introduced to the scene.

But how does the condom actually get there? It’s been my experience in St. Andrews that ladies tend to rely on the gentleman to bring the love-gloves to the party. Most girls seem to feel a tad uncomfortable walking into Boots and buying up a large batch of Trojan XLs. But why do we rely on our male counterparts to make this plunge? Both parties are equally keen to do the deed (because really, we’re about done with the stereotype that men are more eager for sex than women, aren’t we?), and both parties are in equal need of protection.

Furthermore, being of rather a cynical mindset, I’m just not certain I trust the boys to be in charge of not getting me pregnant—or at least, I trust myself a lot more in that regard. How do you know that that condom he just whipped out wasn’t a gift from his favorite uncle on his 14th birthday and has been rotting away in his pocket ever since? Or that it isn’t some sketchy variety he received as a joke or party favor—such as glow-in-the-dark, banana-pie-flavored, or painted with the Pope’s face? (Yes, these do exist.) Are you really willing to play Russian Roulette with your sexual health (or your eternal soul), rather than just buy a box yourself?

It was with minimal embarrassment this week that a friend and I traipsed into Boots, meandered through the hordes of schoolchildren, and parked ourselves in front of the colorful shrine of latex-protectors. We deliberated for a considerable amount of time, reading the backs of the boxes and debating whether the Boots brand could ever really be trusted (we both agreed that sexual health was the one thing that we could not be cheap about). Eventually I chose a bright pink box of “Pleasure Me” condoms while my friend went for the “Excite Me” variety. I searched the cashier’s face for any signs of judgment and tried to guard my purchase from the eyesight of the giggling adolescents standing in line behind me.

All in all, buying condoms is a rather entertaining and empowering experience, and we shouldn’t let men have all the fun. If you buy them yourself, you know they’re new, safe, normal-colored (or not, whatever floats your boat), and geared to your personal condom preference. So, the next time the crucial moment approaches, you too can whip out a pink-foiled pleasure-me condom, and feel no embarrassment whatsoever. Because, really, you just don’t need the Pope popping up in your bedroom, do you?

 

Image courtesy of the guardian.co.uk