The first time I ever bought condoms (no, it wasn’t last week, smart alec), I went to about ten different stores to build up the nerve and find some that weren’t behind the counter until I ended up at the Kroger in Bellevue all jazzed up on the six cokes I had bought at various stores along the way.
I looked around for awhile until I finally asked a guy stocking the shelves where I could find them. “Condoms? My man! Follow me. The ladies are especially appreciative of these!” he said as he led me down the aisle and pointed to some ribbed ones. “Turn them inside out for YOUR pleasure.”
I thought I had it made until I got in line. Who was the check-out lady? That’s right, my third grade teacher from Westmeade Elementary School. She recognized me. I recognized her.
But I was embarrassed to be buying rubbers and she was embarrassed to be working at Kroger; so we both grunted hello and completed the transaction. On the way to the car I decided that I was the one who had something to be happy about. And later that night, I was. Twice.