I had to get Plan B today, which is why this post is really late. I’m sorry, but I had to choose between delaying this post or my period and something tells me that $26 and a plastic crab shaped plate don’t qualify me for motherhood, so here we are. I guess it’s a moot point though because clearly, I didn’t even have any material until my cervix got into the business of devouring condoms.
So, I’m doing what I normally do. Only, I’ve added lube this time because sometimes it’s like my vagina is a pair of Isotoners and the dick is OJ Simpson’s hand and then eventually, people are outraged because someone got away with murder based on a catchy rhyme. I’m moving along with a particular favorite of mine, where I basically squat over the dick and use the strength of my thighs to bounce up and down. It’s effective, but it’s brutal on my legs and so after about 5 minutes, I’m ready to strangle my boyfriend and hope that he finds it sexy enough to blow his load. Anyway, he finishes after I desperately recount some of my filthiest fantasies, as I try to pretend that my legs aren’t burning like one giant herpes outbreak. In my haste to confirm that I would, in fact, walk again, I failed to notice that the condom had come off inside of me. I was relieved that after essentially fisting me, my boyfriend was able to remove it, but it meant that I had to put on pants to go to the pharmacy, which is the real tragedy of this whole thing.
Before leaving, we called to confirm that Plan B was in stock and that we would not be denied for being fornicating heathens, and established that although we were going to hell, we would be able to at least elect to opt out of the procreation raffle. On the way there, I was calm and mostly worried about showing up with no makeup and wet hair, imagining that the pharmacist would refuse us convinced that no one would fuck me while looking like Michael Jackson. Regardless, we got our Plan B and it was easy and painless. Unlike the first time I had to get Plan B, when the pharmacist looked at me like I was the one to hand over the nails at the crucifixion, causing me to walk away shamed and embarrassed.
The thing is–there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you find yourself in a situation where you need Plan B. Unfortunately, it’s been skewed that way, and the fact that it’s commonly referred to as the ‘abortion pill’ doesn’t help. Used responsibly, Plan B is an effective method in preventing pregnancy in the case that routine birth control methods have failed, or if none were used at all.
The moral is: keep fucking, keep loving and always be careful if you are trying to be the Hercules of cock.
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I’ve waited all my life for that Isotoner/OJ Simpson VS Herculean sex metaphor. Thank you.