Bad Sex: Spermicidal Tendencies

By I.M. Soare

Yukiko and I'd known each other more than 40 minutes. It was time to move our relationship into new plateaus. Nerving myself about the new vistas we'd encounter together, I gathered my wits for the question. You know… The Question. 'Bout whether we were gonna leave or not. We'd spent enough time together to be ready for that intimacy seen on TV shows like Baywatch and Beverly Hills 90210. In Japan, a relationship able to sustain conversations in either given language for 40 minutes is ready for the next step into uncharted cross cultural sexual unification at the most harmonious of levels.

We were ready to map the pitches of each others language. It was time to leave the innocent, or Isn't It, group mind happening at the bar, and enter into, well, our true feelings for each other.

I sprang the question, you know, 'bout it beg too hot on the dance floor.
"Atsui, ne?"
"Atsui, an" she agreed. We moved out into the coolness of the night, heading towards the train station and...

"ARRRRRGH! ARGGHEHEHEH!" I moaned and huffed as my face contorted into abstract shapes and colors above Yukiko's. Our clothes formed a montage of piles upon the tatami. Somehow I'd sustained some damage. The pain seemed to be a stark indication of complications to come, but my jimmy cap was still on and engaged in his mission: protection. I'd run out of Trojans awhile back and some friends had sent me a care package, which included Trojan-enz Spermicide Condoms. It should've read Trojan-enz Spermicidal Condoms. I should've used some CFS (common fuckin' sense); spermicidal sounds too much like suicidal. I hadn't. And so there I was, entrapped by the very source of protection. So much for any CFC (common fuckin' courtesy) on Trojan-enz part. We'd been going at it for awhile and I was feeling extremely raw. As in raw skin being exposed to a lethal chemical compound while captive in a latex straitjacket.

ARRRRHAHEH! OHHH! ARRHEHEHGH!

What had begun with a burning sensation along the skin of my penis was beginning to take on quasi-primitive acts of body mutilation. The spermicide was reacting along my raw, exposed skin causing momentary losses in consciousness. Any Tibetan monk could tell you I looked like the 6th bhardo of death. These feelings did bode well for our future. I tried to remain cool and not scare Yukiko, my partner in intimacy, now my source of pain. Yukiko regarded my strange stirrings and twisting as some western position she'd not tried before. She looked at me, waiting for instruction on the nature of the position. I tried to speak but lacked the ability to form any coherent sentences.

Stifling my yells, I moved my hands from her body and moved them to me. Jimmy needed to be relieved of his mission.

MISSION STATUS: Faliure.

I Looked in Yukiko's eyes and she didn't under stand. I had to pull out. Pushing aside my pain momentarily, I tried wiggling myself out of her, but couldn't. Yukiko was too tight! Now, I've never considered myself to be an incredibly large man, but I am packing enough to get stuck inside a petite Japanese woman. Perhaps this spermicidal anti-orgasm toxin was part of some sort of plot from the creators at Trojan. Perhaps this was karma moving quickly in Japan. Had someone been talking to my ex-girlfriend? Perhaps she planted these condoms in the package knowing full well I'd plant them in Japan.

Slowly, I moved my hands down Yukiko's body and edged myself free. Screaming and breathing with god-like force, I disentangled myself from the condom and rolled myself into a fetal clutch. Doubled over, my dick stung, and stung and stung as spermicide continued to coat the raw skin. Yukiko kept asking questions in Japanese; she didn't understand this wasn't a time for conversation, nor was it some exotic western invented afterplay.

This was agony. I stumbled to the bathroom, plopped my penis in the sink and performed ritual water exorcism. I felt betrayed by my dick. A man and his penis shouldn't feel this type of pain together.

Our relationship, now moving into it's third hour, had failed to meet all our needs. We were incomplete. She wanted to have sex again. So did I, but the fear (The Pain!) was too intense. ALl I wanted was a non-lubricated Michiko London condom and a Pepsi! That's all! That's all!

The Trojans were the only condoms I had in the apartment! We would have to venture on a condom quest. Yukiko was in untested waters. This'd never happened on Beverly Hills 90210. She'd have to think on her own. I opted to think for her. She said it was okay (for the most part, her entire culture said it was okay). Our relationship continued the rest of the night, thanks to Michiko London. In the morning, we knew it was over. What'd been between us was gone. The magic had dissipated. Our yearning to see our relationship triumph as the season premiere of 90210 was not to be. Walking to the door, Yukiko stopped at the open box of Michikos and counted each condom that lay scattered on the tatami amid jellies and incense. It was like she was counting down the seconds remaining in our relationship. I tried not to think of the Lawson run run, or my own pain, the spermicide stigma or good bye. All I could think about was the next weekend and how many Michikos I had left...

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