I was unaware that women carried condoms. In my experience, they’d always appeared crumpled up from a wallet or pulled out of a drawer, like a sh–tty gift wrapping job that barely contained the surprise, right before it was time to get the deed done. Sorry, let me grow up, right before it was time to have sex.

It wasn’t lady-like to cary condoms, or so I’d been told? But not verbally. Lead to believe? It’s something I picked up on in-between discussions of body count maximums and the “missing femininity of black women”.

Carrying condoms was for the man, the hunter who went out that night looking for unsuspecting prey to stow away for a quick round or two of fun and then cast back into the streets where she belonged.

Condom-carrying women are “what’s wrong with the black community now. I mean, what are you even protecting yourself from? You’re so busy trying to become a man you’re not even aware of your plummeting stock. And you wonder why you’re losing to white girls. You shouldn’t be going out with the intent of having sex anyway. This is why there are so many single mothers and broken homes.”

Being caught in the moment and swept up by a moment of passion is one thing. But planning to go out and get some d is absurd and violates every feminine attribute men have created in their heads.

Anywho, I said all that to say no, I don’t have any condoms. I ran out yesterday.