Condom-gate
I’m not sure what my parents were expecting to happen when I went to college.
Maybe all night study sessions with the physics major down the hall. Good times and scrable at the weekly Bible club meeting. Coffee on friday night with my favorite professor and other specially selected students (You still have time Flamiano, you still have time).
But no. None of that ever happened. But it could Flamiano, I’ll come back for you.
Instead, there was condom-gate.
My parents didn’t talk much about condoms growing up. You thought it would come up, you know. Maybe while we were buying socks, gloves, baseball caps.
Once when I was in middle school I asked my Dad if he’d ever worn a condom. He got very mad and said, “Now son. You don’t ask people that.” And I haven’t since.
For a long time I thought they were just little baseball caps for your penis. I figured you could buy your favorite sport’s team condoms. I always figured I’d loose my virginity with a Dallas Cowboys Star on my penis. America’s favorite football team on my favorite penis.
But, they were just regular trojans. Womp, womp.
Anyways, when I was moving out of my dorm freshman year, I was cleaning out my desk. My parents had come up the week before to take home a bunch of my stuff, and they were waiting for me to finish cleaning out my desk. My mom was sitting next to me and my dad was sitting on my roommate’s bed.
As I was shuffling through the items in my desk, I saw a condom.
I carefully looked at my parent’s field of vision. My dad was old and probably couldn’t see across the room, but my mom was sitting right next to me. I waited.
When my mom turned her head I quickly grabbed the condom and threw it in the bag I was stuffing items into.
She had sensed something had happened. Damn mom force.
“What did you just do,” she asked?
“Nothing.”
My dad then piped in.
“That was a condom.”
Silence.
Death.
More silence after realizing I hadn’t really died.
Then in my normal, very composed, mature self. I did this.
“Awkwarrrrrrd,” I said while signing awkward turtle.
Again, silence.
After what seemed like an hour of silence, besides the occasional burb from my dad, I continued to clean out my desk, and we never talked about what happened again.
The lesson here? Why don’t they make condoms with your favorite sports team on them? I mean honestly, I’d buy those.
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