Lemons to Lemonade

There really aren't a whole lot of good things to say about condoms.

They tend to interrupt the continuity of hot moments. They can be finicky. They smell funny (not ha-ha funny, either). They taste funnier (by which I just mean "bad"). In a practical application of Murphy's Law, they are usually the wrong size, leaving the poor gent's member looking either like an over-stuffed sausage ready to blast forth from the casing, or like a boy dressed up in daddy's clothes. For the less lucky (or "more selective" perhaps, if we are to give them the benefit of the doubt) of the opposite sex, the old trusted friend that has left an indelible gaping "O" watermark on the wallet is produced with a flourish! Only to learn that it expired... 6 months ago.

A noble quest is to find the beauty in all things - the prince in every toad, if you will.

So, what is there to appreciate about the condom? (Aside from the obvious)

When the condom is produced, I know I'm going to get fucked.

The sound of the foil wrapper being torn is auditory foreplay. I know that in short order, my legs spread, pussy throbbing and drooling in anticipation of you, my desire to be filled will be fulfilled.

And what's not to love about that?