Go Ahead And Give The Kids Some Rubbers -- It Doesn't Mean They're Gonna Get Laid.
By Jeff Smith
FROM THE LAND of the avocado and the kiwi fruit comes the stunning
disclosure that condom giveaways in public high schools do not
lead to higher incidence of teenage sex, but to the greater use
of protection during those incidents which more or less inevitably
do occur.
This conclusion was reached only after considerable expense in
time, grant money, and the sort of metaphysical cerebration over
matters that, while they might appear bonehead simple to the rest
of us, Californians have made into their own special province.
And of course it was not arrived at without controversy and contra-conclusion,
some of which continues even as we speak. Remember: for every
New Age left-wing fruit and nut in the Golden State, there's a
Republican reactionary on a golf course in Orange County plotting
to send Ronald Reagan to a taxidermist and then run him for president
again.
It was the latter, of course, who argued that providing public
school kids with rubbers would only encourage them to lock loins
more frequently than they now are presumed to do. This actuarial
rate is believed by these same socio-political troglodytes to
be on the order of thrice weekly per-capita, and the cause of
social ills ranging from liberalism to secular humanism to baby
ranching for fun and profit by fourth-generation unwed welfare
mothers. And in the other corner, in the beige trunks with the
taupe stripes, your white, California liberal, whose answer to
every question, asked or un, is let's appoint a committee to study
the issue, then form a citizens advisory commission to see that
all demographics, political sensitivities and spiritual doctrines
are represented on the committee, and ultimately write a report
documenting the findings of the committee's deliberations that
offends no one. Oh, and don't neglect to alert the media.
As a member of these media, I would like to synthesize for my
readers what took CNN 30 seconds of precious TV news time:
Having a rubber in your wallet--even a taxpayer-subsidized rubber--doesn't
mean you're going to get laid.
I could have told you this 37 years ago, for 50 cents, in a New
York minute.
Thirty-seven years ago I was 15, looking forward to being 15
and seven months so I could drive a car with my Mom or Dad along
to shout warnings at me, so I could get my real license five months
later and drive to Blakely's Service Station on Speedway, mosey
inconspicuously into the men's room and buy a four-bit rubber
from one of those padlocked vending machines, and try to use it
on Donna Harris (not her real name).
Thirty-five years ago I took that two-year-old rubber out of
my wallet, examined its cracked and dried-out foil wrapping, its
mummified calimari condition, and realized I was never going to
get to put it to its intended use--nor for that matter for prevention
of disease only--and that I'd better get rid of it. I couldn't
toss it into the waste basket in my bedroom because Mom would
find it and I'd be grounded for life, so I stuck it in the back
of my sock drawer until I could devise a safe scheme for disposal.
And forgot it, as whimsical Fate has arranged it, then, now and
forever, so next Monday when the laundry came in off the line
and Mom put my clean socks away, she found it and confronted me--with
hurt in her eyes and sadness in her voice--that evening after
supper.
"Jeff, I found a condom in your dresser drawer," she
said. I did not panic. I did not do white to the heels. I did
not get that loose-boweled, coppery-taste-in-the-mouth sick fear
of a kid who knows he's been busted big-time.
I did not know what she was talking about.
Condom? My mind raced over an inventory of things that can be
found in dresser drawers: Levi's, t-shirts, uns, socks.... Socks.
Sock drawer. Oh shit. Now I remember: condom is what old people
call rubbers. I'm dead.
I was humiliated, contrite, sick to my stomach, but I was not
dead. Yet. Nor was I laid--with that condom or any other--until
many years later, under circumstances I cannot accurately remember
(and would never stoop to fabricating) except to report that I
didn't care for the overall effect. Which could be equated to
a local anesthetic.
I share my deeply personal experiences with you because that's
my job, as writer and commentator, and because this was a Gail
Sheehy sort of Passage of the genre that is universal and eternal.
We old bastards are too often given to bitching that the world
is changing too fast, has spun out of control, that today's youth
have no respect or morals and are humping like hares in heat.
Friends, it just ain't so. The world pretty much stays the same--within
a narrow range of yins and yangs--and obeys the immutable Law
of Average. High-school boys down through the ages would hit on
a snake, if only they could work up the nerve, and wind up with
the blueballs, reading Playboy with their pants around
their ankles. High-school girls down through the ages do their
part to see that most boys are frustrated and unfruitful until
they approach their peak earning years.
This is the way the world works. Even today. Most of the time.
Despite everything you see on TV.
The notion that access to condoms, or raincoats, or rubbers,
or whatever, improves a kid's chances of getting lucky is ludicrous.
Every red-blooded American boy who ever drew breath only wishes
it were that simple.
The truly miraculous thing is that among those teenagers who
have occasion to need a condom, a statistically significant larger
percentage actually is using them. Could this be the harbinger
of a pendulum swing back from the hell-in-a-handcart apocalypse
of modern life, to a renaissance of the safe, sensible good old
days?
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