SPERMICIDAL • by Charlie Bowers

This is going to go all the way. My first time. God knows I’ve waited long enough. Everybody says it’s a much bigger deal before than it is after. I don’t need to worry.

Avoid eye contact with everyone in the store, shuffle over to the necessary aisle, make the purchase and get the hell out. Simple.

Ribbed, featherlight, spermicidal, extra safe… Hold on. Extra safe? Shouldn’t they all be extra safe? What sadistic bastard pitched that idea in a Durex sales meeting? I’m nervous enough as it is.

Ribbed. Sounds uncomfortable, like a wetsuit. Featherlight. Maybe extra safe is just the opposite of featherlight? Spermicidal. Seems like I’m declaring war. Extra safe… Jesus, why not just take my Mom? Oh no.


Holy shit! Should I buy these? Is my mind playing tricks or are there less boxes of MAGNUM? Is everybody getting them? Am I below average? Wikipedia didn’t think so. Anyone can edit that site, though. What if my dick is the laughable size that comes to mind at the point of internet vandalism? MAGNUM… What a joke. Where’s the representation for the other end of the spectrum? They should bring out a range called ‘It’s What You Do With It That Counts!’

I don’t like this at all. There should be more inspirational posters in this section. Black-bordered pictures of a muscled guy playing golf in Florida, pointing at the camera. Caption reads: “You can do it, Champ!” That would be nice. Much better than a government issued information board warning you about the dangers of chlamydia. Hey, no danger of catching anything after reading that turn-off. Purpose served.

Oh no. Oh no no no. One person on checkout and she’s in my English class. Why is she even working? It’s Friday night.

Wait, this is stupid. Why am I embarrassed? I’m about to get laid. I should want this girl to know, she’s kind of hot. Maybe she’ll be impressed at how sensible I am. I should go get some vitamin C too, girls like a guy that takes care of himself. Whatever that means.

Anyway, I can’t just buy condoms, can I? It’s so crass. I might as well have a double-ended dildo and a vat of lube, just go all out. “This is what I’m doing tonight. Care to join?”

Okay, she has seen me. I can’t wait by the flu meds any longer. I need to get this done and get out of here. What’s her name? Carey? Teri? I won’t address her by name.

“Hey,” I say nonchalantly, placing one item on the counter.

“Hi Tom.” Shit, she knows my name. “Late night tonight?” she says, with a wink. Should I wink back? Is that creepy? I won’t wink.

“Ha, nah. Early morning,” I say, not even knowing if it’s a joke, but laughing at it anyway. She laughs too. I’m embarrassed for both of us.

On the way out of the shop I see a nervous kid walk in and take the same direct route.

“They’re out of MAGNUM, I got the last box.”

Born in a brothel, Charlie Bowers started creating erotic fiction at the age of 5 and ¾. His love for hot, steamy literature is only overpowered by a dream to one day fill a list of sexual conquests that reaches into the quadruple figures. (He is an ordinary, albeit silly, student who lives in England.)

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