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You know how it goes when you’re having sex with a condom. You do it, you both come, you untangle from each other, you remove the condom, you dispose of it in the garbage. Pretty simple, right? Except when it’s not simple. And by not simple, I mean you can’t find the fucking condom after the deed is done.
“I’m sure the condom’s just stuck in my vagina; that’s happened to me before,” I say to my boyfriend, Jay, as he grabs his now-soft dick again to make sure the condom isn’t, in fact, still stuck to it.
“Oh, shit,” he says. “Sorry, I wouldn’t have came if I had known it had come off inside you.”
“It’s fine,” I respond reassuringly. “I’m on the pill anyway. Let me just try to fish it out with my fingers.”
I crouch down on the floor and put my fingers inside my vagina, assuming they’ll grab hold of something latex-y. I feel nothing but spongy vagina, so I dig a little further up there thinking maybe Jay’s penis pushed it up higher into me as he was thrusting.
“Um, Jay?” I say. “I can’t find the condom. It’s not in me.”
“Hmm,” he responds. “Maybe it’s on the bed? Or the floor?” He turns our tiny little Murphy bed inside out looking for the elusive rubber but comes up short. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s gotta be really stuck up there.”
Trying not to panic, I escort myself to our bathroom to spare Jay the embarrassment of watching me shove my fist up the hole he had previously put his cock in.
10 minutes pass.
At this point, I’m fingering myself in a full sweat, grunting like an angry ape while contorting my body into Cirque Du Soleil acrobat positions hoping that one of them will produce said condom.
Another 10 minutes pass. Still nothing.
I contemplate asking Jay to put his own fingers inside of me — his are longer than mine — but fear risking our still-very-early relationship by asking him to do something so mortifyingly personal.
10 more minutes pass. Eff it.
“JAY. COME GET THIS CONDOM OUT OF ME,” I sob, as the worst-case scenario makes itself known: me, an uninsured freelancer, taking a cab to Mt. Sinai Hospital to have a medical professional use tong-like items to retrieve a soggy condom. Embarrassing and expensive.
Jay lets himself in the bathroom and like a champ, gets right in there. As he shoves his gangly digits into my vag, I do what every other girl in that situation would do: force my mind to pretend I’m in Aruba saying what up to Ty-Ty while sipping mai tais rather than face the reality that I’m in a cramped Brooklyn apartment while my boyfriend of a few weeks finger-bangs me, but in a non-sexual way.
“Babe, I don’t feel anything,” Jay says dejectedly.
“Are you sure?” I respond, trying not to go into full-blown panic mode. “Google it! This has had to have happened to other people.”
Jay does a quick search on his iPhone and turns out, yes, I’m not the only woman who has ever had a condom stuck waaaaay up in her vagina. Jay starts to blush.
“Umm…” he stutters. “It says you need to get into the birthing position.”
“The WHAT?” I yell. “What’s the birthing position?”
“You know …” he says, looking at his phone rather than at me. “The birthing position, like you’re giving birth to a … baby. It says here it’ll shorten the birth canal, which will make it easier to get the condom out.”
My cheeks turn as bright as my red Volvo, but it’s either this or a $3,500 medical bill.
I squat in the bathroom, put my fingers up my vagina and start pushing.
Oh my god. I feel something. Yes. I feel the tip of something rubber. I keep pushing, trying to grasp onto the tip (no pun intended) so that I can expel the slippery demon out of me. I keep pushing. I almost have it. One last grunt and PRAISE JESUS, the nail on my middle finger grasps the condom and out it comes.
I weep, Jay smiles, and together we cradle our moist rubber child in our hands. “It’s just … so beautiful,” I say. “We made this thing together,” he responds.
Okay, that last paragraph was a lie, but here’s a truth:
Ladies and gentlemen, I birthed a condom.