I’m not a huge fan of condoms, but I used to be, back when I could barely get past foreplay without millions of potential children spewing forth into the world. I can even remember a couple of instances in which I double wrapped, just to save myself the embarrassment of apologizing for being so pathetic.  Due to these massive insecurities concerning my sexual performance, I convinced myself that I was a foremost champion of safe sex.  In reality, I was just trying to avoid an embarrassing nickname, like Pre-Jack or Minute Mac.  Thankfully, after a couple of years that I’m not particularly proud of, I gained enough confidence in my consistent sexual fitness that the idea of desensitizing my most sensitive of organs began to make less and less sense.  Then, the excuses started to pile up: they’re expensive, they make me associate sex with the smell of latex, and god help you if you get any of that lubricant in your mouth.  Fortunately, the universe hasn’t decided to teach me a lesson about being responsible by guiding one of my swimmers to the finish line, and it’s probably because I can barely take care of myself, let alone an impressionable child, susceptible to all manners of trauma and death.  For whatever reason, I’ve been allowed to be selfish pretty much my entire life, and I’m deathly afraid of the day I have to start paying it back, because I know I owe interest.

Hell, I can remember a handful of times in high school when I was so afraid my girlfriend was pregnant that I  mentally prepared myself for parenthood, ready to forgo college and get a blue-collar job just because I couldn’t be bothered to buy condoms.  And that’s when I was seventeen.  I had a friend tell me the other day that her sister started having sex in the seventh grade. For those of you trying to do the math right now, the average seventh grader is twelve years old, thirteen if they were born late in the year.  These kids aren’t even taking the time to wade through the emotional confusion of puberty or to familiarize themselves with their newly operational equipment. They’re just taking their new toys straight to show-and-tell without an ounce of patience or forethought to the consequences.

Nevertheless, as it is with all of the minor vices in life, teenagers aren’t the only transgressors, but they are the dumbest.  They don’t understand that their actions can have serious repercussions, no matter how many times parents try to beat it into their skulls.  Adults, on the other hand, understand that there are consequences, and often have intricate knowledge of the havoc that they voluntarily wreak on their mind, body, and soul: “I know that not using protection has the potential to blow up in a mass destruction of all of my hopes and dreams, depriving me of most (if not all) of my youth and potential; but the five minute drive to the gas station just sounds super inconvenient right now.”

It’s astonishing to me how easily people are dissuaded from common sense and reason. It’s the same reason why cigarette smokers continue to feed their addiction.  They know for a fact that it’s bad for them, but continue to indulge in the momentary bliss, leaving their future selves to pay the cost. No matter how sound the logic is, and no matter how much evidence people have to contradict their decisions, humanity will always give in to pleasure, just as long as the kickback isn’t quick enough to kill their buzz.

At a time when it’s not uncommon to see teenage girls pushing strollers and eating for two, it’s difficult to fathom the fact that this problem already has a solution:  a simple cylinder of lubricated latex capable of stretching over the length of a pickle, and in some cases, a cucumber.  Condoms are one of the miniature wonders of our society, but like the majority of miraculous gifts that technology has bestowed upon humanity, the undeserving masses have taken it completely for granted.