Ok, I admit it, she was slightly overweight. You know, like how Hotelies are a little full of themselves, and Engineers are a little awkward, she was a little chubby. But at that moment, Balto could not care less. Balto was being taken care of; he had been sucked on, played with and was now being caressed by pink walls of heaven.
Yes, Balto is my dick and I was gettin sum.
Things were going great — I was kinda drunk but still able to get it up, something no man should ever take for granted. Balto had his raincoat on, yay safe sex. Fast forward through doggy style, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, sideways reverse cowgirl, wheelbarrow and we get to the finale. I pull out.
Fuck. Something is not right. Balto is no longer wearing his raincoat. He started with one, but now it’s gone. Is it on the bed? Nope. On the floor? Not there either. Oh, it must be on the blowup Santa. Wrong again. I look around in search of the lost condom to no avail. That’s when it hit me, like a shit hits you the morning after a night of drinking and late night Apollo eggrolls.
“Uh, so this is awkward,” I say, not really sure how to best break the news. “I think my condom is, uh, well, I think its in your pussy.”
That was it, the single most uncomfortable moment up to that point in my life. Worse than my babysitter walking in on me jerking it, to a picture of her. Worse than falling down a two-story fire escape with a girl I was trying to fuck. Worse than having my first threesome and not getting it up and ... Well, I’ll save that story for another time. Anyway, it was weird.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Well … yeah.” She went to the bathroom, I tried not to think about my condom tucked away in her fornix. How would she get her fingers up there? What if she couldn’t reach it? Wait, I’ve been in situations like this before and knew what to do — I had to Google it.
Google gave me the reassurance I needed; it had happened to other people. All I needed to do was type “condom lost” and the statement was autocompleted with “inside you.” I haven’t had that kind of thank-god-it-happens-to-other-people feeling since the 8th grade when Marty popped a boner on the bus ride to a soccer game. Some lady on Yahoo! Answers said that the partner should be fishing it out. Ha, yeah, good joke. There is a boundary, somewhere just short of period sex and rusty trombone and way before the angry dragon, that I simply do not cross. This crossed that line.
The second result assured me she would be able to get it out on her own (I’ll spare you the details but recommend you look it up). So I just sat in my room, afraid to venture near the bathroom where the amateur gynecologist was fishing in uncharted waters. All I could do was wait. I’m not religious, but I prayed. Time moved slower than the kid from freshmen year who treated college (and waking up for that matter) as an excuse to get stoned, very slowly.
Finally, after an eternity, she returned victorious, ceremoniously holding the dripping piece of limp rubber in an outstretched arm. I almost vomited. She said simply, “Well that’s a first.”
And there you go, the low point of my sexual escapades; a moment I will not soon forget. Like all good stories, this one has a moral: Watch out for those hoover-like vaginas that can suck condoms off. Thankfully, I made it through this one baby free, but I might never escape the memories of working with a lab partner whose pussy once unknowingly held hostage Balto’s favorite raincoat.
Heath P. is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. One Night Stand appears periodically this semester. Feedback and submissions may be sent to email@example.com.