Tag Archives: conundrums

No Glove, No Love


Rubbers. Jimmy Hats. Raincoats. Willie Warmers. Condoms. Call ‘em what you will. I like to call them the reason I’m not pregnant and I plan on staying that way until there is a ring on my finger, my own roof over my head and a hell of lot more money in my bank account.  Condoms are the reason Tarzan isn’t supporting his baby mama on a bank teller salary.  And the reason I am writing this article. Why, you may ask?

Because Tarzan has decided, unilaterally, that he no longer wishes to wear a condom when we do it like they do on the Discovery Channel. Which would be fine if I was on birth control. Except I’m not. I don’t have health insurance and can’t afford the extra 70 bucks a month for the script.

Tarzan says that they cut off his circulation and he can’t feel anything anymore. ANYMORE? We’ve been having amazing sex for the last year and half and now, all of a sudden, he can’t feel anything?  I offered to buy the Magnum Thin condoms, but he said he doesn’t trust them.  I offered to get the Magnum Extra Large ones and do you know what he said? “I’m a patient man. I can wait.” Well you know what?

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“Delicate” Situations


I would have found something racier, but I feel like searching for anything other than "sexy undies" would have turned up porn pictures.

I have a pretty good life. My problems are what folks on the internets these days call First World Problems. Thus, my problems aren’t really problems at all, just some trivial shit I want to rant about because I honestly have nothing worth complaining about. Luckily, I love to complain. Cue hilarious problems.

My primary residence these days is foggy old Londontown. I live in sin with my boyfriend… and his mother. You know, as hip young ladies in tough economic times do. And I won’t lie–it’s pretty awesome. She’s wonderful, and I get to experience lots of luxuries that most students do not: lower rent, home-cooked meals freshly prepared every night, occasional rides in a vehicle which is not part of the public transportation system, and laundry services.

Which brings me to my problem, which has been an ongoing conundrum for me. What do you do with your sexy underwear when your boyfriend’s mother does all the laundry? 

Seriously. And since England is a place that sees dryers as evil, energy-wasting appliances, things get hung on the drying rack for several days. In the kitchen. Where we eat our meals. And watch the TV which is right next to the drying rack where my sexy undies would be on display.

What to do? I can’t really do my own laundry, because it’s just too much of an inconvenience for everyone if I hog the washing machine for a load or two– there is a laundry schedule for the house, and I can’t disrupt the whole thing to wash a load of delicates. I could always hand-wash them in the bathroom sink, and hang them to dry in the bedroom–but then I’ll look like an uber-weirdo if someone wanders in and sees loads of lacy underpants hanging from the mantle of the fireplace. It would look like we live in some sort of little perv den.

So I just sort of gave up on undies for the year. It’s not like I own any weird things (like crotchless or edible panties). I’m just too damn prudish to hang something sexy, red, and lacy out for the house’s inhabitants to view during dinner.

When summer break rolled around, I got excited and packed up all my sexy undies, so I could wear them on a whim this summer and wash them at my own free will in my giant American appliances. Then I realized that my parents still require my boyfriend and I to sleep in separate rooms. GOODBYE, SEXYTIME. Sexy undies, you time will come eventually.

Sigh. What sort of First World Problems do you have?