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  I was on a date with this chick once. It was the third date. Mandatory boffing, right? Right.
So we went back to my place and settled in with some drinks and music. I lit candles, turned on the lava lamp and bathed in some cologne. The mood was set.
Things heated up quick. First base, second base, third base, and just as I'm sliding in home, she whips out the "where's your condom?" line.
Jesus Effing Christ! I pray I have one around and set off on my quest. Five limp minutes later, I return with a beautiful little Trojan wannabe.
It only takes a few seconds to stir the little guy back to attention and I rip open the package. Lubed and ribbed, I slip it on like a pro.
 I hop into position and she closes her legs. She says, "The condom's expired."
WTF? "No it's not," I say back.
"Yeah, it is. Look." She shows me the date stamped on the back of the package. It's three months ago.
"It's just three months," I say, pointing with more than one bodily appendage.
"It's still expired." Her legs are clamped together tighter than a flea's ass.
I throw my hands up and say, "Look, it's not milk. It's a rubber for Christ's sake! Latex. Like dishwashing gloves."
She shakes her head and says, "Get another."
JEZUS! It took me five f*cking minutes to find that one! So I look at her and say, "Are you serious?"
She crosses her arms, not answering.
Still naked with my rubber sock on, the situation quickly deflating before me, I march over to the TV and pop a porno tape in. I turn to this chick with the bleached blonde hair and fake nails and say, "Jenna don't care if it's expired." |
F. Lawrence Caslin
