Bandwidth

[Editor's Note: This was supposed to be a review of the last week's Electric Six gig. The following is what Ian turned in. When questioned about it his only response was, 'Fuck that noise,' in what we think was supposed to be a Kenny Powers impression.]

I was on the can when the inspiration for this article hit me. There was a condom machine just outside the stall I was using, and with no reading materials to hand, I had begun pondering it. The machine advertised three condoms for three pounds. What struck me as unusual about it was that it dispensed a pack of three different kinds. A regular old rubber Johnny, an ultra-fine, and a ribbed-for-her-pleasure. Surely for most people this is just plain inconvenient. Surely anyone who needs a condom has a preference, which means two out of those three aren’t going to be exactly what they wanted. I, for example, would have no use for anything other than the regular one. I am a meat and potatoes kinda guy, you see. And when you’re fucking a plate of meat and potatoes the ultra-fine ones have a tendency to rip, and the ribbed ones just become clogged with food, which defeats the whole purpose. I jest, of course. I have never been able to persuade a plate of food to sleep with me, even after adding liberal amounts of wine during cooking. I came close once, but the bitch tricked me by asking for oral first. By the time I realised my error I had scoffed the lot, leaving nothing but a gravy slicked plate. What was I talking about again? I was going somewhere with this…

Oh yes, condoms as a metaphor for life. I know what you are thinking. You all know enough about my sex life – ie the complete lack of it – to know that I have no use for contraceptives. So how do I know so much about them? Well I’ll tell you. There is a girl who works in the pharmacy next door to the shop I work in. She is so pretty she makes my heart hurt. No, seriously, one day I had to ask her for a bottle of Gaviscon. The convenience of her profession was not lost on me. As it turns out that day the heartburn was actually caused by a case of Bulgarian beer I found in my mate’s shed. I had to drink the lot, to prove my assertion that ‘beer doesn’t go out of date.’ Even after six years. Back to the rubbers…

Six months ago I hatched a plan to woo this pretty pharmacist. I say plan. I started buying condoms off her. Every week. The biggest box they had. No conversation. No silly come ons. Just an expression that said yeah, I do a lot of sex. My thinking was that she would at first be intrigued, then impressed, then downright jealous of my sheer… output. I was banking on it, in fact, because after shower cap I couldn’t think of a use for the goddamn things and they were starting to pile up. After a few weeks I decided to up my game and go for the wow factor by buying a pack of Magnums. I only did that once though. After slipping one over my head for my morning shower I was fucking horrified to find it quite roomy. Who buys those fucking things? Seriously, I have trouser legs with a lesser circumference. Every cloud, though. That was the first morning for about a month I washed my hair, so I immediately stopped looking so… Persian. My next tactic was to give off the bad boy vibe. You know, living on the edge. I started buying the ultra-fine ones. Because for a badass like me, the very slight improvement in pleasure was worth the increased risk of unwanted pregnancy, or even chlamydia. (I just fucking spelled chlamydia right first time!) This didn’t seem to impress her the way I had hoped, so I changed tactics again. I started buying the ribbed ones, in a bid to look like a considerate lover. I had put off buying this particular kind on general principle, as I believe the female orgasm is a myth, like Elvis’s death, or the whole black guy thing. I will concede that white men can’t jump, but only because we don’t need to, as demonstrated by Guinness world record holder for ‘greatest number of badass acts of violence in one TV show’, Vic Mackey:

Fences? Fuck fences. Where was I? Oh yes, ribbed for her pleasure…

These did not appear to have the desired effect either, and the ever growing pile of condoms in the corner of my room was like a monument to jerking off. Then I caught a cold and decided life sucks and I shouldn’t ever bother trying to do anything. I stopped at the pharmacy on my way to work and, seeing me approach, the girl grabbed a box of twelve ribbed condoms.

‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said. ‘I just need some decongestant.’

‘Oh,’ she said, putting the condoms back and picking up a bottle of Sudafed.

‘I was only buying those to impress you anyway,’ I said.

‘It didn’t work… at all.’

‘That’s okay, don’t suppose you want to get a cup of coffee some time?’

‘I have a boyfriend,’ she said.

‘That figures,’ I said with a wistful smile. ‘Just out of curiosity, what is your preference with those things?’

‘Oh… umm… my boyfriend has to use special ones actually.’

‘Ah, latex allergy.’

‘No, those ones,’ she said, pointing to the Magnums. And suddenly her odd gait made sense. I tried to suppress a grimace. ‘Is that everything then?’ she asked.

~ Pause for comedic effect ~

‘Actually I’m gonna need some Vaseline too.’

Where was I going with this thing again? Oh yeah, the life lesson. I forget what it is, actually. The only advice I can impart is, don’t turn the ribbed condoms inside out for enhanced sensation. Apparently ‘ribbed for her pleasure’ actually means ‘chafes like a motherfucker’. If you do ever make that mistake, though, don’t bother your GP with it. You local pharmacist should be able to help.