Contraception, my way
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“Back in my days, they used Bayer Aspirin for contraception. The gals put it between their knees and it wasn’t that costly,” he said.”
I’m sure this is quite witty for someone like Foster Friess, because it certainly takes the burden from the men and places it squarely on those harlots who seemingly glide around town on modified office chairs with their ankles poised like tent poles around their ears. Friess believes that women, being so bubble-headed and flakey constantly run into unaware penises. It must not feel good for the men, having women ram their tender bits into them like that.
Aspirin must have been like garlic or a crucifix to ravenous vaginas. The Aspirin must have acted as a tractor field, drawing the knees together to keep that sucking black hold of happiness (SIN) from drawing in unsuspecting men.
Back in my day, Contraception was easy. We had respect for ourselves and our bodies, and boys were still gross. Sure we liked them and the smelled good, but the prospect of getting pregnant when we had our whole lives to get an education, go to college, get great jobs and find those successful men was too strong a pull for us to run around and have lots of sex.
Have you met my dad?
Leader One is a former Detroit Homicide Cop, and when I was in high school the station was just down the road, so he popped by frequently to make sure no one was breaking into his daughters.
It was a simple health care system in the Points household. The ladies were not permitted to entertain beyond the front porch when the parents were out working, so during the summer, I would sit with a beau on the front steps, and we’d talk about the leaves or Matisse or the socio-political situation in Northern Uganda. We would sit close, smelling each other – High-Karate for him, Love’s Baby Soft for me – and our thoughts might turn to something dangerous, like whether or not we smelled like that all over.
That was usually when my health care plan kicked in. It started as a rumble of a V-8, growing louder as the vehicle cruised to the front of the house and parked. A blue and white Crown Vic, Police embalm on the doors, lights on the rooftop, “I’ll mess You Up” grill on the front. A man would emerge and place a hat on top of his head, and saunter, slowly around the rear of the car. He had a long, easy gait, blue-black uniform, and .40 Glock hanging from his hip. As he got closer he grew taller, until all 6’3” towered at the foot of the steps.
I’m not saying I was drawn to bad boys, but I certainly don’t recall holding hands with gentlemen – until they met my father. The boys would stand, wipe their sweaty palms on their pants and stick out their hands, a tentative gesture as they fully expected their arms to be ripped from their sockets. Conversation usually went something like this:
Terrified boy on verge of wetting his pants: “G-Good afternoon, M-M-Mr. Points.”
Daddy (practically sotto voce): “Sergeant.”
And oh god, the boy could envision himself at that station behind one-way glass in a line up with thugs, drug dealer, and a speaker would come one and say,” Step forward #6, and he would because whether or it was he number, he was complying fully, and the speaker, which would be left on for the purposes of this death nightmare, would say, Monti – is that the boy that held your hand?” and the nightmare me would breakdown into heaving, inconsolable sobs, “Yes! YES! That boy touched my hands.” And the boy would be lead away to be executed.
“Sergeant, yes, I’m sorry. Good afternoon, Sgt Points.” And when the boy would sit back down, there would be at least 24 inches between us, eliminating any no question as to his chaste intentions.
And because I am evil, right down to the ribbons on my ankle socks, I would beam a smile of pride and love at my dad, because damn, that was impressive. Now, mind you, I did not need my dad to stop by to remind me that virginity was next to Godliness, as our sex-ed teacher was very clear as to what boys wanted to do and what gross appendage they wanted to do it with. Plus, sex just wasn’t on my radar. Holding hands, yes. Necking, lots of good smells when you necked. 2nd base – meh. I’ve never been fond of grabby.
My dad knew that he could trust his girls to not run around – it was the guys on his mind, and the things they might say to get a girl to drop her guard and her underpants. “Boys lie,” he would tell us, “So no matter how pretty they say you are and how much they care about you, it’s something they say to get what they want. Once they get it, they will find another girl to say those things to.” Harsh, but I couldn’t disagree. Looking back, I still can’t.
I wasn’t old enough to make the decision whether or not sex was right for me – youth and general experience played into that. Now that I’m older, I can talk to my Significant Other and my doctor and make those decisions regarding my sexual health. That’s not something I plan on letting some stuffy politician or “preacher” with outdated views on relationship make for me. I don’t need my dad – or any man – to look out for me anymore.
Teach your men respect – for themselves, for the women that enter into their lives, and perhaps we can let the aspirin do what it was intended; remove the headaches brought on by explaining simply human nature to idiots.