It was a sweltering August day in New York City, the tail end of a fever dream. My best friend Laura and I sat on the stoop of her East Village walk-up, sweating through our linen skirts and talking about sex—our favorite topic of conversation. She told me she never carried condoms, too bulky in her tiny handbags, too awkward when a guy rifled for his keys and found one. “It just kills the vibe.”
Last week, Hallie Batchelder said essentially the same thing on her podcast, except to a crowd of masses. “One, it kills the mood,” she’d declared. “Two, I don’t want to have your f***ing weird offspring baby.… Or three, are you calling me a whore?” The internet combusted. Everyone had a take, and none of them felt new. I listened while folding laundry, pausing at the part where she said she had an IUD stronger “than Zeus.” The confidence in a device that is 99% effective—meaning 1% of the time, it might not be—was dangerous.
That same summer, a few weeks after that stoop conversation, Laura called me in tears. Something was off down there—itchy, burning, not right. We ran through the list like it was a BuzzFeed quiz: bacterial vaginosis? Yeast infection? UTI? I told her to go to urgent care, get a culture, not to panic. She texted from the waiting room: They think it’s chlamydia.
It was like the air got sucked out of our group chat. We were 20-something and careful, or at least we thought we were—pulling out, on the pill, on IUDs, sleeping mostly with guys who dressed well and could carry a conversation, as if good taste translated to test results. The news hit us all like a slap. Laura cried, got antibiotics, and got better. But the invincibility cracked.
Laura had an IUD and a sense of confidence that could’ve powered the Q train. She’d been seeing a musician we all quietly agreed was a fuckboy, but she got swept up anyway. The first time they hooked up, she asked if he was “good,” and he said yes, meaning protected. Neither of them reached for a condom. He texted her good morning for three months, then disappeared the same week she got her diagnosis.
And here’s the thing: Chlamydia is one of the easy ones. A round of antibiotics, and it’s gone. I’d never shame anyone for catching something: These things happen, to everyone, but there are infections you can’t shake off so easily. Some linger quietly, some can even cause cancer or increase the chances you won’t be able to have a baby one day. Looking back, it feels like we were playing Russian roulette with our health.
I’ve since learned that bacteria don’t care if you’re pretty or careful or sleeping with someone who quotes Nietzsche in bed. It doesn’t discriminate, and it doesn’t wait for exclusivity. So now when things start to move in that direction, I ask. Usually over text: Hey, if we’re going to have sex, could you get tested? The first time I sent it, my thumb hovered over the send button for 10 minutes. The reply, “Of course,” felt oddly intimate, almost romantic.
There’s a scene I replay sometimes: me, in a bar bathroom, rummaging through my purse, fishing out a single silver packet. I remember thinking it looked like a secret. I’d bought the whole box at CVS and stuffed one into every bag I owned, like little talismans. Some nights, they stayed there untouched. Other nights, they became an awkward pause between laughter and skin. Once, a guy laughed when I pulled one out—said it was cute that I was “prepared.” I smiled anyway, slipped it back in my bag, and left before the drinks were gone.
Carrying condoms used to make me feel promiscuous, like I’d walked straight out of an after-school special. Now it makes me feel adult, like I have jumper cables in the trunk.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about JaNa Craig, the Love Island alum who said her dream date was a trip to the clinic. There’s something subversive and tender about that. In a culture that glamorizes risk, maybe the real rebellion is showing up for your own health (which is harder now—Manhattan just lost its Planned Parenthood, the one that gave out free condoms and free reassurance).
Condoms are not the enemy. Shame is. The idea that wanting to protect yourself makes you less spontaneous, less desirable, less something. Hallie’s voice—funny, defensive, a little scared—echoes a bigger fear: that asking for protection might puncture the fantasy. But if the fantasy can’t survive a question, it probably isn’t worth the risk.