The Most Unpoetic Poem Ever

I’m standing in the condom aisle with a hard on.
Since apparently even the idea of sex turns me on.
Well, maybe not a hard on, but an uncomfortable,
   yet disturbingly pleasing bulge.

What the fuck?

The last time I had to do this spermicidal lubricant
   was the latest advance.
Now, colors and sizes and textures of all kinds.
And just like at Starbucks, there is no small. Vente!
What poor idiot would ever admit to anything else?
What guy really knows?
Hell, I don’t even know my ring size,
and there’s no handy chart (or holes of varying sizes).
   on the back of this box!
And thank god for that!
Wizened old men taking Viagra just to get a perfect fit.
“Excuse me, Miss, can you help me?”

I’m thinking it was better in the old days
   where your only real choice was Trojan™
   (lubricated or not),
or those ones that came in the foil coins
   (if you were trying to be impressive),
or truckstops carried glow-in-the-dark
   (if you were kinky/adventurous).
Now there’s even flavors.
I like the idea of this, but have to admit, I’m
   no dessert.

Variety/Pleasure pack it is.

The cashier (somewhat cute in an anorexic sort of way)
   says,
“Would you like a gift receipt?”
And for a moment I think she’s joking.
But…!
What if the big night doesn’t happen?
What if we never do what I think we’re going to do?
She’s not joking. Total autopilot.
I so want to say yes.
“No.”
I cannot imagine the shame of that return.

But what if Christmas was like this?
What if people decided to just not do it this year?
Or perhaps it is. You do need willing partners
   (or at least one).
Or you’re just gifting yourself.

The anti-theft device triggers at the door.
Again, what the fuck!
Who steals condoms?
At $6 a dozen even I can afford to get laid,
but then I remember my first time…buying,
mumbling what I wanted to the pharmacist,
only to have him professionally yell out,
“He wants some thingies!”

I was 12. We traded them like baseball cards,
collecting what variety there was,
carrying them above our hearts
—like a bible or girl’s hope chest—
until the foil wrapper wore thin.
There was no trusting them then.

We all knew better than to carry them in
   our non-existent wallets.
They’ll wear out and you’ll get the girl pregnant;
common lunchroom cafeteria knowledge.
How many purchased and never used?
“He wants some thingies!”
So yeah, after that I stole them,
until I actually started needing them.

Alarm now ringing I think of running.
My god they know! Fight or flight! Run! Run!
But not this time.
This time I proudly present my receipt and purchase.

And hope they won’t spend much time above my heart.

christopher…. ‘05

By Christopher L. Jorgensen

Website: http://jackassletters.com