I’m just going to cut to the chase: as a twenty-something sexually active woman it’s quite clear that for the majority of us, the onus of contraception falls primarily upon the female participant in heterosexual pairings when, ‘doing the sex.’ Ground-breaking, I know. So here’s a true story of what the condom-only life (I found the pill horrible, sigh) can bring.
One evening at the beginning of the summer, my boyfriend and I had just finished having sex when we realised the condom was missing. I did a little inside-inspection as did he, but to no avail. I told him to look on the bed/floor (he didn’t) and we just left it at that. Normally I wouldn’t be so blasé about my sexual health but we had smoked a joint beforehand and were both a little stoned. Nevertheless I did panic slightly the next morning when I remembered the missing condom. So I did what most people would do, I spoke to one of my closest friends who just so happens to be a bit of a hypochondriac. She told me that I shouldn’t worry too much because she has a friend who had a similar experience (this time with drunken sex) and that the condom came out after a day or so.
Cut to a week and a half later, day two of my period. I was at the Globe watching some Shakespeare (it was The Merchant of Venice, we’d won some Groundling tickets) and having quite a nice time, even if it was a tad chilly. I was wearing a pad and at the end went for a pee. Just a pee, just a normal pee. Nothing out of the ordinary happened and we decided to walk along Southbank to London Bridge. Unfortunately for me, just as we neared the Subway we were heading towards, I felt something strange going on down below and instantly knew that it must be the lost condom. I panicked, ended up admitting to my friend what was going on, and in a fit of slight hysteria and due in part to being unable to find a pub that wasn’t full to the brim with drunkards, went down an alley and forced her to stand guard. Now, I’m not proud of having to hobble behind a large bin and pull bloodied condom out of my vagina, but at the time I didn’t have many other options other than to leave it half-in and hope for the best.
That was probably one of the nastier things that has happened to me in 2015, but ahh well (right?!?) After doing a bit of maniacal laughing with my guard-standing friend, I proceeded to call two other friends on the bus home at 11pm in attempt to explain to them in hushed tones what had just happened as I don’t think I could quite compute it myself, although the ‘comedy gold’ moment was not lost upon me.
In the end I decided against going to the doctor, but did tell my boyfriend, as I thought then (and still do now) that given the bloody trauma of the event, he carried an equal share in my misfortune and after a brief period of frightful looks, he laughed and informed me he had been momentarily scared that I was sheepish because I was about to tell him I was pregnant. Ha. Ha, ha. Oh great. All’s well that ends well, I suppose…