Manners maketh the man, as they say. From your mewling and puking infancy, manners are beaten into you by loving parents and not so loving teachers. Even sex comes with its own set of rules.
Long gone are the days when men could get away a drunken, “How about a shag, love?” Forget it. Women want orgasms. In triplicate, preferably. And with flowers. Anything less is bad manners. And we are armed to the teeth with Karma Sutras, Tantric Sex Guides and Rampant Rabbits with detailed instructions and idiot-proof pictures to make sure you get the idea.
By the end of the century, women will have turned all men into double-jointed super-sex gods. It’s evolution. But men, being the sneaky creatures that they are, have found an ingenious way to assert their individuality. A woman can ask a man to bend over at a ninety degree angle, place one leg behind her head and tickle her with a feather and he’ll happily oblige – but when it comes to removing condoms, men are a law unto themselves.
One thing that fascinates me about men is the weird and wonderful relationship they have with condoms. They’ll happily go to the store and request the jumbo size pack, and they’re more than willing to use them, so why do they get peculiar about taking them off? It’s as if there was something rude about the procedure, like farting. Gotta do it, but not with an audience.
There seems to be a weird interlude between orgasm and the après sex fag and cuddle when the poor bloke realises he has to dispose of the prophylactic. As T.S. Eliot wrote, “Between the idea/And the reality/Between the motion/And the act/Falls the Shadow”.
Here’s a few popular methods. Firstly, The Pink Panther. This requires tiptoeing to the bathroom, shoulders hunched, like a spy in a B-grade movie. Secondly, The Superhero. He moves faster than a speeding bullet. No sooner has your head hit the pillow, and he’s gone. There you are, post-coital glow rapidly turning to shivers, while he’s having a full valet scrub up.
The Ostrich keeps the whole process under wraps by removing the condom under the blankets, where he can’t see what he’s doing. Presumably making a mess. And my favourite, The Joker. OK, he’s not coy, just weird. You know the type. His preferred method is to spin it round his head with a jaunty “Yehaw!” before throwing it in the corner.
The strange behaviour doesn’t end there. Listen up blokes. Although the insert thoughtfully provided in your packet suggests wrapping the used Feather-Lite in toilet paper, three metres isn’t necessary and is environmentally unfriendly. And no matter how many times you try, it ain’t gonna flush. Nor is it necessary to hide the condom in the bin. We were there, remember, so we know you used one.
Why all the fuss? I advise the Slacker approach. Take it off, tie a knot in it and drop it on the floor. The more of these little landmines there are to avoid, the better we’ll think your manners. Promise.