Memories of the best (and worst) rides of your life.
I had the worst sexual experience of my young life back in college. I’d just started seeing a guy that was introduced to me by a friend in my course. At the time, I thought he was the coolest person ever – he smoked, drank black coffee, wore the same boxers two days in a row, that type of fella. We’d only gone on a couple of dates before he invited me over to his – we both knew what for – and I spent the full day previous shaving and prepping my entire body for what I thought was going to be the ride of my life.
It wasn’t long after I arrived to his damp and dirty student house that we got down to business. I didn’t know what to expect but I knew he was the deep and moody type, so I guess I wasn’t too surprised when he began playing a Spotify playlist carefully curated of Mac DeMarco and Paolo Nutini songs.
After a few minutes of intense face touching and emotional neck kissing, he slid a condom on and we kicked things off with a bit of old fashioned missionary. It was uninteresting to say the least, his smokey Amber Leaf breath lingering over me like a cloud, but I thought I’d give him a chance – nobody performs great on the first go, and it had been a while since I had a roll around in the sack myself, to be fair.
I suggested switching positions, primarily because I was close to dozing off underneath him and also because the smell of smoke was becoming nauseating. Finally, he slid out of me and onto his back so I could hop on top and make things a bit more interesting.
I was in the process of swinging the leg over when I noticed his penis looked oddly bare. Where did the condom go? We both sat up and had a quick glance around his bed, but it was nowhere to be seen. I began to panic, flinging his duvet into the air and poking my head under the bed in search of the missing condom. Then, it dawned on me.
“You don’t think it’s… inside me?” I awkwardly asked, which definitely wasn’t the kind of dirty talk he was hoping for. I began pacing the room – it didn’t feel like I was carrying anything around in there, but there was literally nowhere else for it to go.
I recently just had my sharp, stiletto shaped acrylic nails applied, so there wasn’t a hope in hell of me fishing around inside my vagina for a lost condom. Reluctantly, this guy I’d gone on two dates with stuck his finger inside me to see if there was anything out of the ordinary lurking around. Low and behold, the condom had slid off his penis during the uninteresting missionary and, due to his lack of rhythm and incessant plowing, it had been shoved right to the top of my cervix.
Horrified, I began Googling “condom stuck in vagina” and planning what I would tell the doctor when I rushed myself to A&E. The thoughts of calling my mother entered my mind and then swiftly exited. It was then that I realised it was time to make a serious decision – would I rather endure the mortification of having a random doctor remove a used condom from my vagina, or would I let Anto from Artane remove it with his hands?
The latter seemed like the obvious solution, and with some awkward prodding, pinching and tugging with two fingers, he finally pulled the condom out of me. It’s not like we were even together a while and could laugh about it; it was all just too mortifying. It’s safe to assume we didn’t exactly pick things up where we left off, and from now on I’ll always make sure the condom is secured properly before getting the ride ever again.
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