'Trojans' by Sidney Kyle

We come packaged in those sharp red and blue boxes in the back of your local pharmacy, and if you really want to know, no, we’re not afraid to strangle you. Twelve of us, for $16.99 or more. For you, we’re ribbed or studded, with tightening and warming sensations, climax-controlled. We come branded Ecstasy or Magnum or Bare Skin, for feeling like there’s nothing there—hee, hee, jk, we’re always there. We’re there for the party, after-party, wedding, for the thirty-eight year-olds who want to go to the parties and the eighteen year-olds who don’t want to have a wedding. For when he steps naked from the bathroom, his hair so wet and black you can’t not touch him; or for when she sits on top of you, unhooking her bra, her thin panties insisting you’d be fine without us. Spoiler alert: you wouldn’t. It is thanks to us you are still together, why you can afford to not pull away. And we come again and again and again . . . until you come, and then we’re gone.