A box for your stash

This blog is a place for flash fiction, short pieces of creative writing, and other pertinent bits about condoms. It's a work in progress, so bear with me while I prettify it up.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011


If it’s tucked in your back pocket, or slipped quietly into the overnight bag, I know exactly what’s on your  mind. If you toss a pack quietly into the basket as we walk round the supermarket, my heart beats faster. By the time we get to the freezer section I’m burning up.

You leave a trail for me, through the maze of laundry baskets and obligation and forgetfulness, a series of little silver flags. Square winks. Glittery parcels. Messages in foil envelopes.
I’ll write back in sign language: my three wishes: a hot fuck, a heartfelt kiss, our good health. 

Nikki Magennis

Cleanliness, flash by Craig Sorensen

            My hand rests on the overflowing trashcan.  A warm juicy rubber drapes over another, cold but very wet.
He could have tidied up the place.
His calloused finger starts at my tailbone, teases my pucker and I gasp, traces down into my wetness and paints my clit.  His cock resolves, stabs my hip.
His arm appears like a crane on the Manhattan skyline, dips toward the nightstand and retrieves a shrinking ribbon of foil pouches.  I swallow.
A sweet rip.
Unfurling latex crackles.
“Again?” I whisper.
I spread my legs and jack up my hips.
Cleanliness is overrated.

Practising Safe Sex

What are we practising for? The Fucking Olympics? Maybe Nirvana – perfecting our technique for the virgins we’ll meet in heaven. That harem of beautiful but coy types who’d rather close their eyes, get it over with.

‘You’re cute when you’re blushing, d’you know that? Just relax.’

It’s not always easy to be easy – there are so many facets to a good fuck. Including some things that aren’t easy to practise: a lover’s chemistry. And it may not be safe, no matter how strong our amulets. There’s always the risk of failing, of falling. In love, or out of it.

Nikki Magennis

Do you take plastic?

I took the pill until I broke down. Greasy hair and the world through a glass, darkly. The last thing I wanted was sex. My friend tried the coil – cried with the pain, bled like a miscarriage. Another had hormones implanted under her skin, her periods ceased, she took years to revert to normality.

I tried counting. Guessing the danger zone. That ended in tears.

But a condom. Fits all cocks, takes on all comers. Pocket sized, portable. Suits all sexes, any slot.

If the man I love won’t wear one, he’s not the man I love. Pretty good indicator.

Nikki Magennis

Mind the Gap

When you’re deep down in it, lost in sweat and slick secretions, sliding into a language of flesh and pressed on by a heartbeat and want and want and want, blurring the awareness of whose skin is whose and where it’s slipping and how its driving on and further in what you want is not

-         hold on a minute.

A pause. Cold air. Synapses rearranging to trace the memory of where you left the box–sudden silence when it was all going so well.

I mean, jesus, who’d want to prolong that kind of pleasure, start all over again? 
Nikki Magennis

Flash by Vida Bailey

I've never understood it, the attitude some have to condoms. To me, they're just part of sex. The 'is it time for a condom?' breathless pause, then the scramble and fumble and the reconnection as it's handed over and I smooth it on, or watch his hands dressing himself. The cool warm slippery latex length against me, and then that first push inside - I love the blunt, wrapped sensation of it. More intimate, somehow, than a naked cock is one that's been prepared for me. Readied. Primed! And then any ensuing mess is mine and mine alone. 

Vida Bailey


‘Like having a bath with your wellies on,’ Dave said, with the corners of his mouth curling up like day old ham. ‘It’s bareback or nothing, for me,’ he said, shrugging.
So later, when I rode him on the persian carpet, I didn’t use the saddle or the stirrups. I straddled his naked back with my naked legs and dug my heels in. I wriggled until he cried. Kept him on his knees, bore down until he begged.
‘Only with a rubber,’ I said.
‘Course,’ he said, when I held out my palm, two packets lying on it like sugarlumps. 
Nikki Magennis