Prophylactiv

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Prophylactiv

by Wes Pimentel

This is the story of how my two toddler/pre-school aged daughters smeared themselves with the unlikeliest of beauty products, and how it was all my fault.

Ever since we unexpectedly got pregnant the second time, about four years ago, my wife has been bugging me to get a vasectomy. For some reason, emasculating myself by having my testicles surgically altered has repeatedly slipped my mind...for a few years.

Needless to say, I am still as virile as ever. Some cultures encourage and prize male virility and even take drastic measures to increase it, like eating tiger penises and snorting powdered rhino horns and such. My wife is not a part of any of those cultures. She is as single-mindedly dedicated to the destruction of my fertility as any American president is to eradicating militant Islamic extremists. You would think my testes were part of some terrorist network or something (Al Spermia?).

Anyway, she doesn’t want any more kids. I guess passing about half a loaf of baby meat through your genitals twice was one time too many.

The obvious question here is: ‘Why don’t [I] just tell her to get on birth control?’ Right? Well, she must have done some clever Jedi mind trick on me or something, because for some reason that’s not even a possibility in my mind. I remember asking her about birth control pills, I remember cancer being mentioned, then it’s as if my memory of the rest of the event has been erased. Maybe she has one of those Men In Black things. I don’t know. All I know is that it is apparently my duty to make sure that none of my insurgents make it into her promised land.

So, a complete lack of willingness to have more children minus birth control minus a vasectomy plus a healthy sex drive equals condoms (to put it arithmetically). This is why this grown man has to occasionally purchase condoms at the supermarket, like some eager teenager looking for something to adorn his wallet.

Due to my wife’s dictatorial mandate that I do everything in my power to prevent my little jihadists from infiltrating her uterine Green Zone, I choose condoms lubricated with spermicide. I have always felt so responsible for picking the right equipment for protection against the possibility of surprise number 3.

I like to keep my condoms in my night stand, as our special moments typically take place in our bed. You might think that’s kind of boring, but remember we have two kids under 5 years old. We can’t even share a hug without the two little love trophies squeezing between our legs. Can you imagine the trauma we would impart on them were we to slam around the house passionately knocking over tabletop flotsam and brushing aside countertop items like a scene from some Hollywood blockbuster? We’ve come close enough to a premature sex-ed class, so we like to keep it in the bedroom.

The prelude to this story took place one of the last times we treated each other to each other. I went to draw one of my family expansion inhibitors. As I tore open the packet, it fell on the ground. We were in the heat of the moment, so I simply went back into the night stand and called for backup. I was able to deploy the second groin garment with no further issues.

It was obviously my plan to tend to the recovery of the mishandled item at some point after we were done. Even though I had the best of intentions, the activity in which we were participating is usually pretty distracting. Housekeeping is not usually on my mind neither during nor immediately following an intimate escapade with my wife.

We partook in our normal post-coital traditions and I drifted off to sleep like someone in an Ambien commercial.

The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed, positive and energized. I bounced out of bed and hopped right into the shower, whistling with perfect pitch like an old man the whole time. I got out of the shower with a coy little smile on my face, awash in the glow of last night’s happenings.

I kicked my foot onto the sink and began drying my leg and other stuff. Suddenly, I heard the sound of my two little angels at the door of the bathroom. I felt uncomfortably exposed, as I’m sure they got a clear shot of my twigs and berries from the worst possibly angle. Just as I turned to scold the both of them, charged with the shame of having inadvertently exposed them to my nether regions, I noticed my 4-year-old was holding up a condom.

In that moment a flood of emotions colored with incredulity ran through my mind, along with a rapid-fire slideshow of images from the prior night. As I wondered if that was the condom we just used, I snapped my head toward the little bathroom trash: condom present - check. How the hell did she get her hands on a condom?! As I began to admonish her about having gone into Daddy’s stuff again and having ripped open one of these special little packets, I remembered that I had dropped one on the floor.

Oh, what a relief I felt that my little girl was not playing with a little rubber bag full of... well, me.

My relief was short lived, though, because as I came out of my horrific reverie, the fact that she had just said “These make you pretty,” finally registered. I had started to dry myself again, in an effort to return to a feeling of normalcy, but I suddenly stopped. I asked, “How do they make you pretty? What did you do with it?” As she described how she had used this unusual beauty product, she demonstrated by pretending she was sticking her hand inside a little sleeve-like device and showed me how she had proceeded to smear the spermicidal lubricant all over her face and most of her upper-body. By the confident nodding that my 3-year-old was doing in the background I could tell that she had been unable to resist the temptation of taking part in this little makeover moment. She confirmed that she had also smeared herself with whatever sperm-killing lube her older sister had left on the device.

Needless to say I no longer had that warm glow, I was no longer whistling like some optimistic idiot, and I had definitely lost the pep that my wife had put in my step the night before. I reported to work feeling dirty, irresponsible and ashamed, rather than with that sly grin men get on our faces the morning after we get lucky.

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