I like to have sex with vaginas. I don’t like having sex with synthetic apparitions, custom-engineered to feel just like the original. It’s why I don’t own a Fleshlight. Boring. Which is why I say give me unprotected sex or give me… something else. My hand. Or a liquor drink.
When Tim Condom invented the condom, his original design was so long-term, monogamous couples could have the illusion they were screwing someone else. Bring some of that picante back to the bed. But somewhere after its introduction a misguided, mid-level government drone who didn’t understand the product told America it should be used for safe sex. What he didn’t know is that he would unknowingly kick-start a world where sex was no different than jacking off with a plastic grocery bag smothered in Vaseline wrapped around yourself.
Enough. I’ve heard the arguments: Oh, I don’t want a kid; I don’t want my dick to become a festering, oozing shell of its former self. Come on. Is that really gonna happen?
I don’t know about you, but I find pulling out to be pretty damn easy. It’s what our nation’s leading sex educators, the porn stars, are telling us to do. You thought people liked to watch guys ejaculate? No. They don’t want to pay child support.
Moreover, women only ovulate, what, once a month? So that’s like 29 other days of the month they don’t have stem cell pellets barreling down their fallopes like a slalom course. And without an ovum (it’s an ovum, right?) you can’t get pregnant. So just circle that third Wednesday of every month and don’t have sex that day. Do on-demand instead. I hear Flight is good.
Oh but heavens the sexually transmitted diseases! Come on. Have you seen what medicine can do these days? If you have a hand and your friend has a hand and you two are like I want his hand on my arm and my hand on his arm they can do it.
They aren’t even bad. What are you worried about? Chlamydia? It’s gone in like nine pills. Syphilis? Sure, if you are a French monarch living in 1724. Herpes? They go away. And don’t even get me started on AIDS. Have you ever actually met a person with AIDS? No. You haven’t. They found the cure for that shit decades ago. The guy who puts on all those walks just enjoys owning expensive cigarette boats and using real diamonds as ice cubes in his Tom Collinses. The earth is in now. Condoms come from factories in southern Nicaragua and must be shipped—fossil fuels—across the world. Think about how many trees you’d be saving. Fifteen? A least.
And they’re just so lame. You know what the difference is between wearing a condom and sticking your dick in a warm frittata and wearing a condom and having sex? Boobs you can touch, sure, but other than that, there isn’t any. I want to feel. I want to sense. I want to actually be inside you, not inside something that’s inside you.
Fucking shouldn’t be done with sensibilities and reason. No. It should be raw and emotional and passionate. Putting a condom on beforehand is antithetical to that.
So fuck ‘em. Bare.
(Editor's Note: Yes, Brett is a goddamn maniac, but that's what we love about him.)
[Sex image via ShutterStock]