I was about to reach for the package when I realized they came in different sizes. Oh God. How the hell was I going to be able to buy the right size? First, I had no sodding clue what size Jack would be, and second, even if I did, wouldn’t whatever I chose just offend him? He probably wasn’t a large, because James Martell had been bigger than him, but to get a small seemed rude. I took a deep breath and decided that the only possible solution was to buy a medium pack. Why couldn’t they just make them “one size fits all” like with woolly hats?
I picked up the pack and glanced at the price. Nine fifty?! For one tiny little pack? These had to be the most expensive condoms available. It was going to cost me almost a tenner to lose my virginity. I could buy two bottles of wine for that. Maybe the shop did generic-brand condoms? With renewed excitement I scanned the shelves but to my dismay the only ones I could find were a pound cheaper.
Resigned to the expensive reality of sex, I took my condoms over to the counter. If they did a Meal Deal, you’d think they would at least consider doing a Sex Deal. I wouldn’t mind paying ten quid if I got a varied selection of condoms, with maybe a free bottle of lube. I made a mental note to find out exactly what lube did and if I needed some.
I put the singular packet of condoms on the counter and the cashier looked me up and down. He was in his fifties and Indian, and he shook his head at me as I defiantly crossed my arms, waiting for him to challenge me.
“Nine fifty, please, madam,” he said in a strong Indian accent. Ooh, I was madam. Clearly my outfit was having the intended effect.
I handed over my card, feeling successful and entitled to be there. I punched in my PIN, felt sad because it was the first four numbers of Lara’s date of birth and waited for the transaction to come to an end.
The cashier sighed and looked at me with an expression of . . . disgust? Jeez, why was he so mean? Buying condoms was what responsible young adults were meant to do.
“Yes?” I snapped at him, putting my arms on my hips. “Do you have a problem?”
“Your card has been declined.”
Oh. Crap. It was rent day and my loan wasn’t coming in till next week, so I had no money in my account. I felt a blush launching across my face at the speed of shame. “Oh, right, sorry,” I mumbled.
A queue had formed behind us and people were starting to look round curiously. I knew I should leave the condoms there and come back for them, but I needed them for Sunday, and I didn’t know if I could handle another day like this. I opened my purse and started looking for loose change.
“So, you would still like the condoms?” he asked in his faltering but pronounced accent.
“Um, one sec, sorry,” I said as quietly as possible, pulling a fiver and pound coins out of my purse. I made up nine pounds thirty from the change in my wallet but I was short twenty pence. Oh God.
“You need twenty pence more so you can buy the condoms, madam,” he said. “There might be a smaller pack there that is a bit cheaper.”
“No, there isn’t,” I said through gritted teeth. I opened my handbag and began rummaging around for more change. I was now breaking into a mild sweat. “Okay, got it!” I said triumphantly as I pulled out a pound coin. Oh, bollocks . . .
“That is a euro,” he affirmed.
Please God, please give me a break here, I prayed as people behind me started tapping their shoes. An old man behind me stepped forward. “Here, take this,” he said to the cashier, handing him a twenty-pence piece.
I whirled around to look at my savior and was repulsed to see the pensioner wink at me. I whispered, “Thanks,” and grabbed the plastic bag from the cashier’s hand. I took it and ran. All the way down Camden High Street. The second these condoms ran out, I’d be going straight on the Pill.
I looked at myself in the mirror and held on to the edges of the porcelain sink.
“Ellie,” I said out loud. “Today you are going to become a woman.”
It was Sunday, May 19, 2013. I was ready to lose my virginity and enter into the next stage of my adult life. Britney Spears was singing “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman,” and never had her words rung so true to me. I was an African tribal boy, about to kill my first lion. I was the Jewish girl I’d always wanted to be, about to have my bat mitzvah complete with a cringe retro theme. My 1992 Vintage Virginity had mellowed beautifully with age and I was about to let Jack pop my cork.
I was plucked to within an inch of my life. The Brazilian had miraculously managed to last—with the help of my Tweezermans and a few hours of vigorous plucking. My outfit was a masterpiece. I had finally decided to embrace myself and stop trying to be someone I wasn’t. I was wearing my trusty black skinny jeans with a new pair of heeled boots. They were simple black suede, born out of the Mrs. Kolstakis emergency cash fund, and made me feel sexy. My top was simple too. Black again, because it had worked for Sandy in Grease, and it slid easily over my head so we wouldn’t get stuck undressing each other. My hair was freshly washed, bouncing along behind me as I walked, and my lips were freshly anointed with pink Vaseline. I didn’t even need a self–pep talk in the mirror to be able to halfheartedly admit I looked good. I knew I did.