Fruit Condoms

WRITTEN BY LAUREN MARSHALL

‘I’m sick of dating guys who only seem to last longer than five minutes when they’ve got something to prove.’ Said Erin who, while free to have this opinion, didn’t understand how ridiculous it sounded to a girl who hadn’t had any for five lifetimes. Five minutes of shit sex compared to five lifetimes of soul crushing abstinence is like Trump’s America compared to Putin’s Russia. Sure, they’re both shit, but one’s shittier in fundamental ways. And while I love Erin, and I really do, I could deal without the woe-is-me Bridget Jones shit from a girl who’s bright orange copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck sat so brazenly on her coffee table that I half expected it to deliver a speech on Mexican border walls or the do-nothingDemocrat’s plot to steal the election through a postal vote. Huh.

‘Lols? Lauren?’ Erin was snapping her fingers between my eyes in an attempt to reel me out of that drunk-trance writer state in which one composes little soliloquies around abstract composites of fragmented conversation. Erin knew when I was in this state and the way she puts up with it really is a testament to our friendship. ‘Yeah definitely, I understand,’ I told her, and honestly, I did. It’s just the problem is if I could go back to the dick who gave me my last five minutes in Shangri-La, I’d probably chain myself to his ankle and cook him eggs in the morning.

I was sucking away at a Boag when Erin’s roommate Todd returned with his friends. I’ve started drinking beers a lot more lately. You wouldn’t believe how many men it turns off. It’s like something flips in their lower ape brain and they figure that a woman drinking man juice is either lesbian or too alpha to conquer. Trims an awful lot of the fat off a conversation when they can no longer pivot to the different types of ciders and which ones receive the holy man-chimp seal of being ‘okay.’

An additional layer of fat has been shaved immediately given that parties are limited to 10 people in Brisbane. As a result, guys are more inclined to only invite their closest friends, who are more often than not of higher quality than the stragglers who would occupy the lower tiers of friendship. Furthermore, the hosts – especially when the hosts are dudes or dude adjacent like Erin– are more inclined to balance the ratio of sexes, to avoid the ever-dreaded

male horror of the ‘sausage party’.

I knew I was in a drunk-trance writer state and I used that as an excuse to eye off Todd’s mates. Introductions had no doubt just been made but I was too focused on sausage party ratios and the lesbian defense to take any notice. One of the guys sat down beside me. He told me his name was Blake. I thought he was hot. That’s what mattered and he was actually rather pleasant in conversation, without being a try hard or cultural critic.

(Drunk-trance writer state aside; what makes one a cultural critic? Why does Wikipedia list ‘cultural critic’ alongside journalist and actual professions? How come my mum doesn’t have a cultural critic wiki for her scathing attacks on Kochie from Sunrise? What about Leopold, the homeless man that camps across from the West End library who often discusses capitalism, the tax code and, naturally, the therapeutic effects of DMT with myself and anybody else who gives him the time of day?)

Somehow back at Blake’s place. I swear to God student accommodation complexes are covert brothels/harems: Erin pimped me out, and here I am, just two floors down from her with this charming man. What did he pay her? Is he paying her ridiculously expensive rent? How else can they legally charge such high rent, if not to pay off bribes to keep cops out of the student sex-house?

Without being lewd, Blake was a really nice guy. If you’re interested, he had big brown eyes, short brown hair and a hint of stubble which gave him a dignified air of sexiness. I’ll spare you the rest because I really hate trying to visualise a sexy person described in text form and always ultimately default to producing a mental Frankenstein of Zac Efron, Timothée Chalamet and Heath Ledger parts. Anyway, Blake was a really nice guy. He was kissing my belly and I told him I was ready, that I wanted him. And then the fucker smiled and pulled out a fruit-flavoured condom.

For a grown woman to allow a fruit condom into her body, she’d have to be as silly as a bee that spends it’s days trying to pollinate plastic flowers. I didn’t even know people used these. At best I thought they were for kids or people from the Gold Coast who had so fatally mortar and pestle’d their brains up that the cacophony of loud colours inside the packaging took on the familiar and dulling allure of play dough.

Sex is supposed to be real I was telling myself as I put my clothes back on. I’m not part of the anti-GMO crowd but I just feel as though a cock should be free of artificial colours and flavours. This is the hill I am willing to die on. What happened to men? Sex is supposed to be real. This is the chicks coming home to roost after a generation raised on the fallacy of comeand-get-it-boys pornography and instant gratification video games. Grown men buying condoms flavoured like fucking bubble gum. ‘I’m... I’m sorry Blake I’ve got to go.’ I put on my coat, nicked one of his beers and rushed out of the apartment. I was almost at the elevator when he called out. ‘Lauren don’t go! Stay here and finish your beer, let’s talk. I don’t mind that you’re a lesbian. We can just be friends!’ Jesus Christ. Men are so absurd.