Yeah, I know. I sound like a hip parent trying to encourage young people to get on the train to Coolsville and bag it up before they bang, or something equally cringeworthy. I’ve written before about condoms (badly, I hasten to add – this was early in my blogging days and I’d not write the same piece today), but in general I’m not a fan of the way they feel or the effect they have on dudes I fuck, so as a general rule I’d rather go without.

That doesn’t mean that I’d gleefully bareback with a brand-new fuck, but it does mean that when I’m in a committed relationship with someone, and we’re both free from STIs, and I’ve other methods of preventing pregnancy, I’m unlikely to crack out the Durex and ask for a latex fuck.

However.

And it’s a big, bold ‘however’, because I don’t contradict old blog posts lightly – I want to tell you why, despite their cons, there are a fuck of a lot of pros to condoms which have nothing to do with their practical value. I want to talk about why condoms can be sexy. Ready? Let’s go.

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A long time ago someone published a book called ‘Porn for Women.’ Don’t get too excited, it isn’t actually porn. It was simply a collection of different images of guys doing the hoovering, washing, and other household tasks. In this ‘porn for women LOL’ hilarious trope, guys are occasionally tantalisingly half-dressed but never doing the kind of thing I’d consider genuinely horny: masturbating on the sofa, or poised halfway to sitting down on a butt plug – that kind of thing. I would be surprised if – barring a few people with very niche fetishes – anyone’s actually ever wanked to it.

I was reminded of it recently when someone (I don’t remember who and I don’t want to drop them in it even if I could) tweeted a list of ‘top female turn-ons’ which looked suspiciously like this book. The list included such gems as ‘listen attentively when she tells you about her day’ and ‘take the garbage out.’ I don’t know about you, but I’m more likely to have actual, satisfying sex with my own vacuum cleaner than to orgasm while thinking about a guy begrudgingly hauling bin bags to the front garden.

I do not sit at home frigging myself trembly over the idea of my partner picking up a hoover. I do not get wet just because someone is listening attentively while I speak, unless perhaps that person is Tyrion Lannister and what we’re discussing is just how hard he’d fuck me.

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The evening I lost my virginity I lay awake in bed staring at the wall, willing myself to feel special. I assumed that with that magical penis-in-vagina moment, something fundamental about me would change. I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly – I didn’t expect sparks, or revelations, or for the world to burst into glorious technicolour like it did in the Wizard of Oz. I just thought I’d feel… different.

I didn’t, and looking back at that moment as an adult that’s a blessed relief. Imagine if there really were a significant change bestowed upon someone just because they happened to have completed a particular sex act. If it shone out of them like a traffic light, blinking ‘green’ for ‘has fucked’. It’d be quite disturbing, not to mention really awkward over breakfast with your family.

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