I have standards.
And I try to maintain those standards in pressured situations.
I was dating a young lady while in college and we hadn’t been dating long, and were still getting familiar each other.
We attended different schools in the city she was from and were both sophomores.
I lived on campus and she lived at home with her mother.
She invited me over for dinner one evening for us to get better acquainted and for me to meet her mother and older sister.
I had been to her house once before but at night while her mother was at work. Her mother was a nurse and worked third shift, and her sister lived a few blocks away, so the young lady and I had the place to ourselves that evening.
This time I arrived at her house dressed in my best collared shirt and my least-baggy pair of jeans. I hadn’t matured enough to know to bring flowers or dessert, so I showed up empty handed—but my cologne smelled nice.
I stepped out of my car and approached the gate that led to the front porch. The young lady appeared at the glass door. She looked disappointed—like she had expected to see flowers or dessert.
I trotted up the stairs and she opened the door. “What’s wrong?” I said.
“My mother had to cancel,” she said. “You won’t be able to meet her tonight.”
I wanted to wipe my brow with the back of my hand, like, “Whew!”
I had thought it was early in our relationship for me to meet her family, but I agreed to have dinner to show that I wasn’t an advantageous college guy exploiting a local girl whose mother worked hours that were convenient for late-night visits to enjoy the comforts of her home, as opposed to the confines of a college residence hall. (Guys from my school were known for that sort of thing.)
“That’s terrible,” I said. “What happened?”
“She got called into work to cover for someone, so she had to leave—and my sister can’t make it either.”
Her mother left without preparing dinner and I suggested we go out to eat, but the young lady insisted we stay in and that she would cook dinner. She prepared Velveeta Shells & Cheese, green beans, and iced tea with lemon slices.
We ate dinner and talked for a while, and then went into the den to watch television. It was Saturday night and I don’t remember what was on TV, but it didn’t keep our attention. Things got “frisky” between us before the first commercial.
She stopped and turned to me. “Did you bring something (a condom)?”
“No, I didn’t bring anything,” I said. “I thought your mother and sister would be here.”
“Dan-tayyyy.”
“Dante, what?” I said. “You’re the one who didn’t call and tell me no one would be here.”
“I know, but you’re supposed to always keep something—you’re a man.”
“And you’re a woman. And you’re at home … and your mother’s a nurse—why don’t you have something?”
“Because I don’t. I never—” She looked away over her shoulder. “Wait a minute.”
She stood from the sofa and walked toward the hallway that led to the back rooms. She returned moments later with a small, brown paper bag—like the ones used at a penny candy store.”
I was hoping she wasn’t trying to compensate for us not being able to do anything by giving me a handful of “Pal” bubble gum or some “windmill cookies.”
I had my mind on some “pink cookies” … in a plastic bag, getting crushed by a building. (What was LL thinking with that song title?)
She emptied the bag’s contents into her hand; it was an assortment of condoms. “Here, we can use these,” she said, handing me a few.
“Where did you get these?” I said.
“My sister gave them to me. She got them for me when I was dating my last boyfriend—he already had two kids and she didn’t want me to get ‘caught up’.”
“Strike #1,” I thought, as I examined the condoms.
Some of the condoms were generic brands and some had no brands at all (Strike #2). Their packaging was flimsy like lollipop wrappers and the different colored condoms were visible through the clear backings.
My facial expression must have shown my disinterest. The young lady resumed her place on the sofa. “What’s wrong?”
“Nah, nothing,” I said, as I squinted at the fine print on the packaging.
I didn’t voice it at the time, but I was thinking, “Um, chick, I don’t use no damn ‘health department’ condoms.”
I also had no intentions of using “residual” condoms from a previous relationship (Strike #3). That’s almost like not changing the bed sheets.
She was determined. “These are okay, right?”
“Uh, maybe we should just hang out and chill,” I said. “We’ll be prepared next time.”
“But I don’t want to chill … I want you.”
“Yeah, but not with those.”
“Why not?”
“They look like Halloween candy.”
“Dante … stop playing.” She leaned closer and did this thing near my ear, where she—wait, that’s too much information.
I eventually went to the nearest El Cheapo convenience store and purchased a three-pack of condoms that cost about as much as a Super-size Fish Fillet combo from McDonald’s. (Hey, money was tight; that’s how I quantified things back then.)
I spent the night and left the next morning before her mother came home.
Lesson Learned: Pink cookies should be crushed in the proper plastic bag.
