“Why can’t you do without that rubber?” My agent had asked me one evening we were on the verge of making love. I knew what she was talking about, but just feigned ignorant. Another word she loved to call a c****m was rubber. She would sometimes call it latex or sheets.
“Rubber?” I said and looked her in the eyes, languid with the urge for us to get on with what we were out to do. “What rubber? There are no tires in here,” I spoke again.
“Don’t give me that look, Beck, like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“What?”
“Why do you love to use sheets all the time? Sheets! Sheets! Sheets! Rubber! Rubber! Rubber! I’m talking about condoms, Beck.”
“Oh…. condoms…”
“Why do you love them so much? Or do you think I’m not clean? Like I’ve got something? Like HIV? I’ll prove it to you, Beck!
