The Case of the Lost Condom (Or: Why I Retired From Casual Sex)
A photo from the time of the story…
Let me set the scene.
It was a random Saturday. I had freshly shaved legs, half a bottle of wine in me, and the emotional availability of a toaster. So naturally, I texted that guy I’d matched with weeks ago whose only green flag was “uses punctuation.” We’ll call him “Chad,” because, of course we will.
Chad came over. We made awkward small talk about kombucha and The Office until eventually we ended up in my bed. It was… fine. Not bad, not great—just the kind of mediocre hookup that makes you question your life choices while also wondering if your vibrator is charged.
Anyway, things wrapped up, and he left. I lit a candle, did the obligatory “what just happened” stare at the ceiling, and moved on with my day (read: ordered Thai food and rewatched Fleabag).
Fast-forward THREE DAYS.
I’m at work, minding my own business, when something in my body feels… off. Not like the world is ending off, but like something might be vacationing inside me off. After some frantic Googling and one very awkward maneuver in a locked bathroom stall, I realize:
The condom. Never came out.
It was still in me.
LIVING RENT-FREE IN MY BODY. FOR THREE DAYS.
Cue full body cringe.
Now listen—I’ve worked in social services. I’ve seen some things. But nothing prepared me for the unique mortification of fishing out a lost condom alone while contemplating every decision that brought me to this moment.
And it hit me: I didn’t even like Chad. I barely remembered what he looked like. We had sex because I was bored, lonely, and wanted someone to look at me like I was special for 20 minutes (and even that felt like a stretch).
I wasn't trying to connect. I was trying to fill. To distract. To feel something. To feel wanted. And honestly? The sex didn’t even give me that. All I got was an accidental tampon twin.
But here’s the thing—I don’t regret it. I mean, I regret the condom squatter situation (obviously), but I don’t regret the moment of clarity it gifted me. Because sometimes your body has to literally hold onto garbage before your brain catches up and realizes, “Hey… maybe we deserve more than this.”
So yeah. I’m off the one-night stand train for a bit. I’m not swearing off sex—I’m just done using it as a substitute for self-worth. I want connection that doesn’t leave me Googling “foreign object removal” at my desk.
And to the next guy I let in my bed: You better make me laugh, text me back, and remove all your belongings on your way out—including condoms.
Sincerely,
A woman who now checks twice.
