This will be TMI both physically, and um, morally. Just so you know.
CD6: Condoms, day 6, which was yesterday.
Actually, since we’d been taking a few-day break from sex while I tried to get my stomach to stop hurting, it was more like condoms, day 4. Either way, it’s become obvious that this “simplest form of birth control” is going to take some practice.
I was pretty well aware, while we were already engaged in coitus, that Doug didn’t have a condom on. But then I started second-guessing: could I just not feel it? Had he maybe put it on before I’d even come into the room, and then put his shorts back on over it, and was just trying to be prepared like a good little ex-boy-scout? Was he planning on pulling out all along anyway, and didn’t want to waste one of our precious resources?
Somehow I doubted all of the above, and could even hear the nurse practitioner I’d seen telling me to “make sure he puts it on before anything touches anything,” but I just… I couldn’t be bothered to stop him. It just felt so natural, doing things the way we’ve always done them – even though the nagging voice in my head demanding that I push him off me and yell at him was kind of distracting.
“I missed the part where you put the condom on,” I told him after he’d finished (without pulling out, of course).
“Oh. Um, I could do it now?”
And then, lying there in the dark, I brought my hands up and covered my face. What are we even doing here? I agonized. This is not how this is supposed to happen. What’s the point of all my suffering these past few years if we’re just going to – whoops! – have a baby now, with nothing any different than it was before?
But when Doug asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t articulate any of this. Because it’s really hard for me to say out loud, “No, I don’t want to get pregnant, and we’re doing the right thing.” Not after all this time I’ve spent mourning my non-pregnant state.
Ever the voice of reason, Doug reassured me that this one time probably would not result in an accidental pregnancy. “It took us almost a year the last time,” he reminded me.
(I was also inadvertently reminded of the few times in my younger life when I had condom-free sex with a casual-but-repeated partner. He had assured me he’d just been tested, and since I was practically a virgin, and on the pill, what could possibly go wrong? Thankfully, nothing did.)
Doug also promised me that he wouldn’t make the same mistake again: “It’s my responsibility, and I’m sorry.”
Another thing I decided not to tell him is that, actually, it’s our responsibility. That I’m every bit as much at fault for not having said something sooner, or pushing him away, or slapping him across the face for being so fresh and untoward. I chose to say none of this, because… Why not make it his responsibility? The pill and the IUD – things that went in my body – were mine. So why not agree that it’s his penis and, therefore, his problem?