I Need a Little Love. And I Mean a Little.

This weekend I found myself in SF. Or Frisco, as it is never called by anyone that lives anywhere near it. So, I'm there I'm in the Mission buying pvc skirts and burritos. And in between those purchases I stop at Walgreen's to get a soda. What can I say, eating a lot of carbs and dressing like a whore can tire a woman out. Well, it took a long time to get the soda. There was a guy in front of me engaging the clerk in lengthy discussion about condoms. Apparently, this particular store keeps all their condoms behind the counter. Which makes me think they do that because people steal them. Which makes me think this would be a good area to distribute free condoms. Anyway, fifteen minutes on condoms while the line behind him is snaking through the store. And we can all see him. And hear him. And all know all about his business. Like the fact he doesn't want the Magnums. And the fact he only needs a three pack. And wants to know why they aren't on sale like the bigger boxes.

He might not have been embarrassed to ask these questions, but I was embarrassed to hear them. I mean, really? I am happy for him for practicing safe sex. I am sad for him only anticipating having protected sex three times in the decade before the condoms expire. Though, I imagine his willingness to engage in this kind of public humiliation in the middle of a drugstore might be decreasing his street value.

And for the record, when I find myself needing to buy condoms in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of a crowded store, I buy three boxes of the biggest boxes of the biggest condoms, a tin of breath mints and a bottle of whiskey. I want people to know I like to party.